


Adrift

by Henna_Gamgee



Series: The Making of a Ringbearer [1]
Category: Lord of the Rings (Movies), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon, Pre-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:33:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Henna_Gamgee/pseuds/Henna_Gamgee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo’s life at Brandy Hall after his parents die, and the events leading up to his adoption by Bilbo.  The first part in my “Making of a Ringbearer” trilogy, which is Frodo-centred and pre-LOTR.  No slash.  Can be read alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Strange Place

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to explain my weird personal system of understanding hobbit ages first, so you know what the heck I was thinking when you read the actual story. I realize that most people have probably developed their own way of relating hobbit ages to human ages, but since I’m writing this story, I might as well tell you how I see it. If you aren’t obsessed with pointless details like I am, just skip this part.
> 
> So basically, I got out my graphing calculator and created a function to describe hobbit age. Yes, I know I am a nerd, so don’t bother pointing that out. :) The function ended up being quadratic, and I think it works really well. So... if any of you are in a particularly nerdish mood and feel like making your own handy reference graph for hobbit age, here is the function: Y=0.0034X^2+0.404X+1.14, where X=hobbit age and Y=human equivalent (X^2 means “X squared”). My story actually starts in 1380, the year Frodo’s parents die. Frodo is thus 11 (or around 5-6) – I’m assuming the accident is in the spring, before Frodo turns 12. So, there you have it. Evidence that your high school algebra may yet serve some purpose... Now on with the story! Finally!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I don’t own the Lord of the Rings or any of its characters, all of which were created by J.R.R. Tolkien. I do not profit financially from this story.

1380

 

Esmeralda sighed, glancing down at the tear-stained face of her young cousin.  She smoothed his dark curls tenderly.  They all had a great deal of grieving to do.

 

“Come along, Frodo, dear,” she said gently.  “Your room is right over here.  I’ll help you get settled, alright?”

 

The small hobbit clinging to her hand nodded reluctantly.  Esmeralda opened the door and settled Frodo on one of the two little beds inside.  She saw that Frodo’s bags had already been brought in, and she began swiftly unpacking and hanging the small items of clothing in the cupboard.

 

Esmeralda worked in silence for several minutes, until all was organized to her satisfaction.  Finally, she looked up to meet the wide blue eyes of her small charge.  He was eleven years old and rather small for his age, but he was a bright little thing. 

 

He still hadn’t said a word.  Esmeralda was just recently married and had no children of her own yet, but she knew this wasn’t healthy, especially for a boy as bubbly and cheerful as Frodo had been only the day before yesterday.

 

Yesterday.  Esmeralda sighed again, feeling the strain of the past day as everyone in Brandy Hall was.  The poor child had lost his parents only yesterday.  Accidents on the Brandywine River were rare, to be sure, but not unheard of.  Frodo’s world had fallen apart, and Esmeralda would not soon forget the anguished wail that escaped the little boy on seeing the bodies of his parents brought up from the river.

 

Since then, Frodo had maintained this eerie silence, broken only by tears.  Esmeralda supposed he was still in shock, and she was worried.  How long could this last? 

* * *

February 1382

 

Frodo Baggins paused uncertainly outside the heavy wooden door, then hesitantly pressed a small, delicately pointed ear against the cool surface.  He could hear voices within the room.  They were talking loudly.  Frodo frowned, trying to determine if one of the voices belonged to the person he sought.  He wiped his nose with a small, grubby hand and listened carefully.

 

The voices burst suddenly into raucous laughter, and Frodo drew back with a startled sniffle, then made himself continue down the round hallway as silently as he had come.  He was looking for his Aunt Esmeralda, and none of the voices in the room was female.

 

Brandy Hall was an enormous network of rooms and passageways beneath Brandy Hill and could bewilder any adult hobbit.  But Frodo was only thirteen years old, and he was completely lost.  He missed the small, cozy hobbit hole he had shared with his parents near Crickhollow.

 

The boy whimpered quietly.  Thinking of his parents still made him cry like a baby hobbit sometimes, and he had frequent nightmares about the day they drowned in a boating accident on the Brandywine almost two years ago.

 

He crept softly down the long passageway, making himself shrink into the shadows as much as possible in case any of his boisterous cousins made an unexpected appearance. 

 

Frodo knew that these Brandybuck relations were his family now; it had been explained to him many times, but he just couldn’t seem to feel comfortable in Brandy Hall.  Uncle Saradoc and Aunt Esmeralda had assured him, when he was first brought to live with them, that he would soon get used to the chaos and feel quite at home. 

 

Uncle Bilbo had said the same thing.  Frodo smiled fondly, thinking of his favourite uncle.  Bilbo had come to Brandy Hall soon after the accident, and his presence had been such a comfort to Frodo.  All too soon the visit had ended, and the dear old hobbit had gone back to Bag End, promising to come again as soon as he could.

 

There had been several brief visits since then, but Frodo hadn’t seen Uncle Bilbo since before the New Year.  Bilbo had said he would come back in the spring.

 

Frodo paused, holding his small hands over his mouth to muffle the coughing fit that overtook him suddenly.   He wasn’t sure, but he thought springtime really ought to be fairly soon.  After all, it seemed like a dreadfully long time since Uncle Bilbo had gone away, so really, spring could come any day now.

 

Satisfied with his logic, Frodo returned his attention to his present mission.  Where could Aunt Esmeralda be?   He needed to tell her he was sick.  Mama had always said he should tell a grown hobbit if he wasn’t feeling well, and Aunt Esmeralda was the only one at Brandy Hall who paid him much attention.  Uncle Saradoc was very kind as well, but he was even busier than his wife, being more involved in the smooth running of Brandy Hall.  Frodo didn’t want to bother him. 

 

In fact, he didn’t really want to bother Aunt Esmeralda either, but he didn’t see any other choice.  She was probably in her bedroom, where she had been spending a lot of time resting lately, but Frodo didn’t know which way that was.

 

Frodo came to a hallway that branched to the right.  He turned the corner and made a noise of frustration when he still didn’t recognize where he was.  He leaned back against the wall and slid slowly to the floor.  He was so tired, his nose wouldn’t stop running, and his throat ached abominably.  The floor was of smooth, hard wood, but Frodo curled up into as small a ball as he could make and soon fell fast asleep.

The next thing Frodo was aware of was that he was much too cold, which was puzzling because he was covered by a veritable mountain of soft blankets.  After that, he noticed that he couldn’t breathe through his nose, and his mouth was painfully dry.

 

“Mama?”  Frodo croaked experimentally.

 

“She’s not here,” said a voice abruptly. 

 

Frodo sat up slowly, his memories gradually returning.  He was in his own little bed in the room he shared with his cousin Bolo, in Brandy Hall.  His parents were... dead.  Frodo felt rather silly for forgetting something so important.  He glanced across the dimly lit room to see Bolo lounging on the other bed.

 

“What happened?” Frodo finally asked, trying to clear his scratchy throat.

 

Bolo snorted derisively.  “You fell asleep in the hallway again.  Cousin Merimac found you and brought you back here.  What’s the matter with you, anyway?  You’ve lived here almost two years and you still get lost!”

 

“I wasn’t lost,” Frodo replied indignantly.  “I was having an... adventure!”  Frodo was very proud of remembering that important word.

 

Bolo laughed at that.  “Oh, really?  Did you run into any trolls this time?”  Bolo didn’t have much use for his imaginative younger cousin.  The brat had been given Bolo’s own room to share, and he wasn’t even any fun.  He was too young to play the rough games Bolo played with his friends.  He wouldn’t even go swimming in the Brandywine like a normal Brandybuck.  The only use Bolo had found for Frodo was that the younger hobbit was easy to torment.

 

Frodo frowned and flopped back down on his bed.  Bolo was three years older and Frodo was often at his mercy, as they were frequently unsupervised, but Frodo wouldn’t give the other boy the satisfaction of admitting that he still couldn’t find his way around Brandy Hall.

 

“Uncle Bilbo met trolls,” Frodo said reproachfully.

 

“Oh, yes!  Good old Mad Baggins!”  Bolo chortled.  “I bet you’ll grow up to be just like him!”

 

Frodo sat up again furiously.  “Don’t you talk about Uncle Bilbo like that!”  he cried.

 

“He’s not even your uncle, Frodo,” Bolo said savagely.  “He’s your cousin.  So are ‘Aunt’ Esmeralda and ‘Uncle’ Saradoc!”

 

“No!” shouted Frodo, forgetting his sore throat.  He had been addressing his favourite relatives as Aunt or Uncle for years; he hated to think of the only remaining hobbits who loved him having a title in common with Cousin Bolo.

 

“At least Bilbo doesn’t have blue eyes like you,” Bolo went on, clearly enjoying the reaction he was getting.  “Hobbits don’t have blue eyes!  What are you, anyway?”

 

Frodo wanted to say that Mama had blue eyes, but somehow he knew that if he brought up his mother, Bolo would insult her too, and Frodo didn’t think he could bear that.  Instead, he turned away from Bolo without responding.  He had always liked his blue eyes, anyway.  They reminded him of the Elves in Uncle Bilbo’s stories: exotic and striking.

 

The round door to their room started to open then, and Esmeralda poked her head in.

 

“Frodo?  I thought you were still asleep,” she said, coming into the room with a steaming mug and a glass of water.  “What’s the matter, my pet?”

 

“Aunt Esmelda, are you really my aunt?”  Frodo asked tearfully.

 

“Of course I am, darling,” Esmeralda answered, knowing Frodo’s penchant for addressing various relatives by the wrong title.  She thought it was rather endearing, especially since the child had always had difficulty pronouncing her name.  “Why do you ask?”

 

“Bolo said you’re my cousin,” Frodo answered. 

 

Esmeralda paused, noting Frodo’s distress and guessing who was behind it.  “Bolo Brandybuck,” she said finally.  “Your mother is looking for you.  It’s time for supper.”

 

Bolo slipped off his bed eagerly, sticking out his tongue at Frodo as he left the room.  Frodo stared back with all the dignity a thirteen-year-old hobbit could muster.

 

“Drink some of this, dear,” Esmeralda said, coming to sit on the edge of his bed and holding out the steaming mug she had brought.  “You have a nasty cold.”

 

Frodo sipped from the mug as Esmeralda held it for him.  It was nice warm chicken broth, he realized.  He couldn’t smell it, but at least it felt good on his throat.

 

Once Frodo had finished the broth, Esmeralda scooted back against the wall and pulled the little hobbit into her lap.

 

“Frodo,” she began.  “I want you to listen carefully, all right?”  She felt Frodo nod solemnly from his position cuddled closely against her.

 

“Saradoc and I both love you very much, and nothing can change that.”  Esmeralda paused to gauge the effect her words were having.  “We don’t mind at all that you call us aunt and uncle, but in actual fact, we are your cousins.”

 

Frodo frowned.  “Bolo was right?” he said uncertainly.

 

“Yes, dear, although it was very wrong of him to tease you as he did.” 

 

“What are cousins?”

 

Esmeralda raised an eyebrow.  Genealogy was one of the most important subjects taught to young hobbits, but Frodo had not yet started school.  How much would he understand?  She wondered, not for the first time, if she and Saradoc were ready for what would be coming in a few months...

 

“Cousins are the children of your parents’ brothers and sisters, or the husbands and wives of those children,” Esmeralda said, deciding to stick with first cousins.  You have many cousins here in Buckland, and all of them love you.  Do you understand?”

 

Frodo tried to figure that out, but gave up eventually.  He liked the part about his cousins loving him, although he rather doubted it was true of Bolo...

 

Seeing that Frodo was satisfied, Esmeralda began tucking him back into bed.  She was glad she hadn’t tried to explain second cousins, cousins-once-removed, and all the other complicated relationships that existed within the Brandybuck clan.

 

“Now you get some rest, young hobbit.  You still have a bit of a fever.  You really should have come to me earlier!”

 

Frodo thought about telling her that he had tried to find her, but really he was getting drowsy, and he was finally starting to feel warm again.  Frodo closed his eyes.

 

Esmeralda kissed Frodo on the forehead and blew out the lamp.  “That’s right, just go back to sleep, my pet.  I’ll bring you some supper in a bit,” she said, setting the glass of water on the dresser in case Frodo got thirsty later.

 

Frodo suddenly opened his eyes and sat up again, remembering something he had been wondering about earlier.  He rarely had the chance to ask all the questions he came up with, and he wasn’t about to waste an opportunity.

 

“Aunt Esmelda?  Is it almost springtime?”  he asked hopefully, remembering that Bilbo might be coming any day now, if it was spring.

 

“No, dear,” replied a puzzled Esmeralda.  “Not for another month and a half!  It’s only February yet.”

 

“Oh,” said Frodo, trying to conceal his disappointment.  A month and a half was a long time, but that was all right.  Frodo could wait, and make up new adventures between now and then.  “Thank you, Aunt Esmelda.”

 

Esmeralda smiled and closed the door behind her.

 

* * *


	2. The Long Awaited Visit

April 3, 1382

 

Bilbo Baggins took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, enjoying the feel of the warm spring air.  He stretched his arms over his head and ran his fingers through his greying curls, trying to impose some semblance of order.   After glancing once more round his campsite to make sure he’d left none of his provisions behind, Bilbo picked up his pack and walking stick and set off down the road, whistling a walking tune to set the pace.

 

This was the third and final day of his journey to Buckland, and Bilbo was looking forward to reaching his destination.  Not that he didn’t enjoy the journey, of course; he loved to see other parts of the Shire, and he enjoyed the solitude his trips afforded him.  Bilbo liked being alone with his thoughts.  It gave him the chance to think about the book he was writing, to reflect on his adventures, and to plan future chapters.

 

Bilbo was alone most of the time at Bag End as well, but he frequently found himself distracted from his book by mundane, everyday considerations.  Out here on the road, there was nothing but the gentle rustling of trees swaying in the breeze, insects buzzing, and the occasional snatch of birdsong.

 

In any case, Bilbo was eagerly anticipating the end of this particular journey, for it meant he would be seeing his cousin Frodo again.  He had last seen Frodo nearly five months ago, and Bilbo desperately hoped the child had shown some improvement since then.  It wasn’t healthy for a lad Frodo’s age to be so quiet and withdrawn. 

 

* * *

 

 

Just after dusk several hours later, Bilbo was approaching the open gate that marked one of the entrances to Buckland.  He always came by this entrance, because it was away from the road and not normally crowded with Buckland hobbits.  Bilbo preferred not to give large numbers of relations the opportunity to comment on all his comings and goings. 

 

He spied a small figure sitting on a high fence post, swinging its legs jauntily.  Bilbo peered closely in the gathering gloom, almost certain he could make out a head of dark curls.

 

“Uncle Bilbo!” came an excited, high-pitched cry, confirming Bilbo’s suspicions as to the identity of the small fence post ornament.

 

“Frodo, my lad!” responded Bilbo, somewhat alarmed at finding the young child out in the dark, apparently alone.

 

Bilbo reached the fence swiftly and lifted his small cousin down from his perch.  As soon as he set Frodo down on his hairy feet, the lad flung himself forward to give Bilbo a hug.  Well, to give Bilbo’s legs a hug, more accurately, given the difference in their heights.

 

“There, now, my boy,” Bilbo said, unfastening the small arms and crouching down to meet Frodo’s eyes.  “I’m glad to see you, too!”

 

Frodo beamed at Bilbo, favouring him with the slow, sweet smile that Bilbo remembered from years ago and had despaired of ever seeing again.  Bilbo smiled back and took the child’s hand, leading him onto the path back to Brandy Hall.

 

Bilbo suspected his Brandybuck cousins were not fully aware of how altered Frodo had been since his parents’ deaths, for they hadn’t known the little boy as well as Bilbo had prior to the accident.  That bright smile showed Bilbo that the old Frodo was still inside, just waiting to come out again.

 

“Uncle Bilbo?” Frodo asked, thrilled to have the attention of his beloved relative.  “Did you meet any Elves on your way?”

 

Bilbo laughed.  “I’m afraid not, lad.”

 

“How about Dwarves?” Frodo persisted, undaunted.

 

“No, no Dwarves either,” Bilbo replied.  “But if you like, I’ll tell you a story about Dwarves and Elves before you go to bed tonight.”

 

Frodo bounced with glee at this offer, and eagerly nodded his head.  “Yes, please, Uncle!”

 

They were almost at the end of the long, winding path that lead to Brandy Hall.  Bilbo frowned, realizing that it had been a good twenty-minute walk.

 

“Tell me, my boy,” Bilbo began.  “What were you doing out by the gate by yourself after dark?”

 

“Waiting for you,” the child replied, as though this should be obvious.  “Uncle Saradoc didn’t know which day you’d arrive, so I waited for you every night this week!”

 

Frodo seemed pleased with the outcome of his enormous investment of time, but Bilbo was alarmed.  “How late have you been staying out, lad?” he inquired. 

 

“Just ‘till I got sleepy,” Frodo replied.  “I came in about 11 one night, but that was the latest.”

 

Bilbo tried to process this information.  It was painfully obvious that Frodo was not being adequately supervised.  Did no one keep track of the child’s whereabouts, or make sure he got to bed?

 

“Where are your Uncle Saradoc and Aunt Esmeralda?” Bilbo asked finally.

 

“In their room,” Frodo responded easily.  “At least, I think they are.  Aunt Esmelda’s in there most of the time, anyway.”

 

Bilbo knew that Saradoc and Esmeralda were expecting their first child any day now, but still, had no one been keeping an eye on Frodo?  Bilbo wondered, not for the first time, if Brandy Hall was really the best place for Frodo.  Bilbo sighed.  The fact was, there was no other place for Frodo.  A child needed to be with people who were used to taking care of children, and all the relatives Frodo was familiar with were at Brandy Hall.  Well, except for Bilbo himself, of course, but he was hardly parenting material.

 

“Let’s go to the kitchens, Uncle,” Frodo urged, tugging on Bilbo’s hand.  “I missed supper, and I could eat an oliphaunt!”

 

“Why did you miss supper, dear boy?” Bilbo asked, frowning.

“I was waiting for you,” Frodo explained, looking back at Bilbo as though this ought to be obvious.

 

Bilbo’s frown deepened, but he tried not to show his dismay for Frodo’s sake.  No wonder Frodo was so unusually slender; did no one notice whether he appeared at meals or not?  At any rate, Bilbo was here now, and he was more than willing to spend his visit showering affection and guidance on a child who was clearly in need of such attentions.  They were approaching the lighted round windows and doors of Brandy Hall, and Bilbo could now see more clearly the too-thin, blue-eyed form that walked beside him, clutching Bilbo’s hand as though he never wanted to let go.

 

* * *

   

 

An hour later, Bilbo had left his bag in one of Brandy Hall’s many guest rooms, paid his respects to a very harried Saradoc and a very pregnant Esmeralda, and had settled Frodo and himself in the kitchen with a light snack.

 

The two hobbits sat side by side at one of the long tables the kitchen staff used for baking, slowly ploughing their way through a thick mushroom soup, some freshly buttered rolls left over from dinner, a few nice thick slices of roast beef, and a small plate of devilled eggs, or ‘egg boats,’ as Frodo persisted in calling them.

 

“Thank you, Miss Poppy,” Frodo said gratefully to the stout scullery maid who brought him a tall glass of apple juice.

 

“You’re very welcome indeed, Mr. Frodo,” she replied fondly.  “Will ye be needing anything else, Master Baggins?”

 

“We’re all set for now, my dear,” Bilbo answered, and she nodded and went back to her work in another part of the kitchen.  He couldn’t remember seeing her on his last visit.  “Friend of yours, Frodo-lad?”

 

Frodo smiled, licking the filling from one of his ‘egg boats.’  “She is very kind,” Frodo replied.  “I like to help her with the baking when she’ll let me.  And she always saves food for me when I miss a meal.”

 

“Do you miss meals often?”

 

“Well, sometimes,” Frodo said meditatively.  “Like when Cousin Bolo tied me up and left me in the hayloft, I missed elevenses, luncheon, and afternoon tea, all on the same day!”

 

“Indeed,” said Bilbo, making a mental note to talk to the parents of Frodo’s malicious roommate before he returned to Bag End.

 

“Bolo’s mean to everyone, though,” Frodo said after a moment.  “Even the servants.  He was so rude to Miss Poppy on her first day here!  He made her cry, so I gave her a hug and told her Bolo was mean.  He says I shouldn’t be friends with servants, and he would be nicer to me if the servants didn’t like me so much.”  Frodo paused to drain his cup of mushroom soup.  “He even hates it just when I’m polite to them.  Mama always told me to treat everyone I meet as—as I would like to be treated.  But Bolo says I should save my manners for gentlehobbits, because servants don’t matter.” 

 

“Does he?” Bilbo said, trying to keep his tone level.  “Well, my boy, don’t you listen to a word Bolo says.  Anyone whose good behaviour is conditional upon someone’s status doesn’t bear thinking about.  And you keep right on befriending those you find worthy, Frodo, no matter what position they hold in life, because your Mama was absolutely right.”

 

“Truly?” asked Frodo, looking up with a serious expression on his small face.

 

“Of course.  Your kindness is one of your most admirable qualities, my dear little Frodo.”

 

Frodo climbed down from his chair and gave Bilbo a fierce hug.  “I’m so glad you came, Uncle,” the child whispered.

 

“So am I, lad.” Bilbo replied, trying to swallow the emotion in his voice.  “So am I.”

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo delighted in spending time with Frodo, but it was really past the lad’s bedtime.  Or what should be the lad’s bedtime, at any rate.  Bilbo often forgot how young Frodo actually was; he so often seemed wise beyond his years.  After finishing their snack, they walked toward Frodo’s room only to be waylaid by Old Rory, calling out to Bilbo through the open door of his study.

 

Rorimac was actually a few years younger than Bilbo himself, although he looked much older.  The Master of Buckland was glad to see that Bilbo had arrived safely, and wanted to hear all about a couple of Brandybucks who had recently moved to Hobbiton.  While the adults were talking, Frodo fell asleep on the arm of Bilbo’s chair.  It was past eight o’clock, after all.

 

Bilbo finally carried the lad back to his room, still sound asleep, and tucked him into bed.  Pulling the covers up to the boy’s chin, Bilbo bent down to kiss his forehead.

 

“Uncle Bilbo?”  Frodo asked sleepily, opening his startling blue eyes.

 

“Yes, my boy,” Bilbo answered.  “I’m sorry I woke you.”

 

Frodo glanced over to the other bed, which was still empty.  “That’s all right, Uncle,” he said.  “Bolo will wake me anyway, when he comes in.  And you promised me a story!”

 

With a sigh, Bilbo sat on the edge of Frodo’s bed.  “So I did.  One about Elves and Dwarves, as I recall.”

 

Frodo nodded, closing his eyes again. 

 

“Very well, but just a short one.  It’s long past the time when little hobbits should be asleep!”

 

Frodo smiled, his eyes still closed.

 

“Let’s see then,” Bilbo began, and he told Frodo a little of his experiences with Elves and Dwarves, on his great adventure many years ago.  When Frodo’s breathing was slow and even, Bilbo got stiffly to his feet and turned down the lamp.  After a last look at his beloved cousin, Bilbo left the room quietly, closing the round door softly behind him.

 

 


	3. A Merry Occasion!

April 4, 1382

 

Frodo the Fierce peered cunningly around the trunk of a mighty oak tree before slinking stealthily forward to stretch out in a patch of grass nearer the sleeping dragon.  Frodo was now concealed only by a small blueberry bush.  After a brief moment of consideration, the brave and valiant Elven warrior paused in the hunt to make a quick but satisfying snack of the ripe, juicy berries.  This accomplished, Frodo the Fierce – or was Frodo the Fearless better? – wiped his small, sticky hands on the grass and crept a few paces closer to the slumbering beast. 

 

Now he was close enough to see the rise and fall of the creature’s chest as it breathed, to see the smoke coming out of the beast’s nostrils, and to hear its low, rumbling snores.  Suddenly realizing he was yet unarmed, Frodo the Fearless glanced around quickly, then darted back the way he had come.

 

Behind the mighty oak once again, the valiant and brave warrior recovered his mighty sword – Galadriel – and took up his position once more.  Frodo did not know what ‘Galadriel’ meant, but he had heard Bilbo mention the word once before, and hoped it sounded Elvish, for an elf-warrior’s sword really ought to have an Elvish name.

 

Frodo the Fierce and Fearless drew a deep breath, gazing at his adversary.  This was it, then.  He rose to a standing position and moved forward slowly.  Now he was standing over the foul dragon, sword in hand.  The warrior raised his sword, preparing to strike—

 

—and the dragon, ‘Bolo the Beastly,’ he decided finally, gave a mighty grunt, rolling over onto its other side.  Frodo lowered his twig and sighed.  He knew the game really ought to end here.  If Bolo woke up and caught him like this, poised to give a good poke with his mighty twig, Frodo would surely suffer unpleasant consequences. 

 

Perhaps he could get in just one good poke before he ran?  No, better not risk it.  Bolo had, earlier that morning, threatened to stuff him in the huge barrel that Mistress Begonia used to make the pigs’ swill.  Frodo shuddered.  He was terrified of that barrel.  It was taller than he was, and gave off such a dreadful stench.

 

Just then, Bolo the Beastly grunted again more alertly, and started to open its hideous, glowing red eyes (or so Frodo fancied).  Frodo the Fortunate stifled a squeak of alarm and, before Bolo the Beastly could gather its wits (if it had any), Frodo ran as swiftly as his small legs could carry him, dropping his mighty twig along the way.

 

Back inside Brandy Hall, the hobbitling paused for breath.  ‘Oh well,’ he thought.  ‘It was still a grand adventure.’  He couldn’t wait to tell Uncle Bilbo, and immediately began looking for the old hobbit.

 

Frodo peered into the dining hall as he passed.  Where could Uncle Bilbo be?  Frodo hadn’t seen him since early that morning after first breakfast, when Bilbo had given him some lessons.  Frodo smiled at this thought.  In another few months, Frodo would be old enough to go to school with the other children of Buckland, but Bilbo had begun teaching him his Westron letters already.  Frodo couldn’t wait until he could read all those marvellous looking books in the Brandy Hall library.  He had already vowed before a very amused Saradoc that he would read every book in that library by the time he was fifteen. 

 

And Bilbo had even promised to teach him Elvish one day!  The thought of being able to read the beautiful and mysterious letters that he had seen in some of Bilbo’s books made Frodo wild with delight. 

 

Frodo pulled up short, looking around in confusion.  Where was everyone?  He had passed his little cousin Berilac toddling after his father Merimac, but the halls were practically empty

 

* * *

 

 

“Don’t worry, Saradoc,” Bilbo said with all the complacency of a confirmed bachelor.  “I’m sure everything will be fine.”

 

Saradoc Brandybuck, future Master of Buckland and anxious father-to-be, continued to pace the hallway outside the rooms he shared with his wife as though his life depended on it.

 

“Besides,” continued Bilbo, taking another puff on his pipe.  “The midwife would certainly tell us if there was a problem.”

 

“I suppose so.”  Saradoc sounded unconvinced.

 

“Well then, at least sit down on this bench with me before you wear a hole straight through to the wine cellar!”  Bilbo finally said in exasperation.

 

Saradoc sat down beside his cousin eventually, but could not hold still for long and was soon up again.

 

“But they’ve been in there since midnight!”  Saradoc protested.  “Is it supposed to take this long?”

 

“My dear fellow,” Bilbo replied.  “I may not be an expert in these matters, but I think it is safe to say, it takes however long it takes!”

 

Saradoc sat down again with a sigh.  They could hear the faint murmur of the voices of a dozen hobbit ladies through the door, but Saradoc had to wait with the other men in the hall.  Most of the hobbits who had volunteered to keep Saradoc company were still arrayed about the hallway, leaning against the wall or sitting, many smoking their pipes as Bilbo was. 

 

“How do you think Frodo fares these days, Saradoc?”  Bilbo inquired, mainly to distract the nervous hobbit.

 

Saradoc glanced at Bilbo.  A fine hobbit, really, despite his adventurous reputation.  Bilbo had not left his side since the labor began, in the middle of the night, except for the two hours’ break he’d taken to spend with Frodo.  He hadn’t even wanted to send the boy away until Saradoc assured him he would find someone to watch Frodo for a few hours.  It was a fortunate thing Saradoc had found one of the older lads, Bolo, to take Frodo outside.

 

It warmed Saradoc to watch the attachment growing between Bilbo and Frodo.  He knew Frodo was lonely here at Brandy Hall, and he always noted the positive change that came over the solemn little lad whenever his ‘uncle’ paid a visit.

 

“He adores you, you know,” Saradoc said then.

 

Bilbo looked at him in confusion. 

 

“Frodo,” Saradoc clarified.

 

“The feeling is mutual, I assure you,” Bilbo said serenely, after taking his pipe stem from his mouth.

 

“You have all our gratitude for being so good to him, Bilbo.”

 

“Nonsense,” said the old hobbit gruffly.  “I love that boy, as I loved his parents.  It’s the least I can do.”

 

Just then the conversation was interrupted by a long, high-pitched wail, followed by the angry squalling heard from many an irate newborn upon being brought into this cold world.  The hobbits in the corridor started, then began crowding round the door excitedly.  Saradoc was grinning so hard Bilbo thought his face must hurt.

 

The door opened, and a matronly hobbit lady beckoned Saradoc inside.

 

Bilbo ushered the others away from the door to give the new parents some privacy, then took up his seat again, smiling widely around the stem of his pipe.

 

* * *

 

 

Frodo walked down yet another deserted hallway, growing more confused than ever.  He knew many of the adults were still out doing their daily work, and most of the older children were having their lessons, but he had never seen Brandy Hall so quiet!

 

As it frequently did, Frodo’s imagination began to run away with him.  What if Uncle Bilbo had left Buckland?  Maybe he had gotten tired of Frodo already, and had asked the other adults to see him off, wanting to leave without saying farewell to Frodo.  Tears stung the little hobbit’s eyes at this thought.

 

No.  Frodo gave himself a shake, remembering the affection and tenderness in Bilbo’s voice the night before, when they had shared a snack after Bilbo’s arrival.  Uncle Bilbo would not do such a thing, surely.  And besides, Uncle Bilbo liked spending time with Frodo; the old hobbit had said so himself.

 

Then a new, worse fear gripped Frodo’s tender heart, as he suddenly remembered another time everyone had gone outside in the middle of a work day.  Maybe there had been another accident on the Brandywine.  Maybe some other little hobbit was going to suffer what Frodo had.  Frodo began to run, unable to control the tears that began coursing down his cheeks in response to his distressing thoughts.

 

Unable to see where he was going, Frodo turned a corner into the hall leading to the kitchens and ran straight into a plump, yielding object.

 

“Why, Mr. Frodo!”  A female voice exclaimed.  “Whatever is the matter, lad?”

 

Frodo disentangled himself from the rough fabric of a lady’s skirts and looked up.

 

“Miss Poppy!”  He sobbed.  “Where is everyone?  Where have they gone?  Has there been an accident?”

 

Poppy looked into the fearful sky-blue eyes for a moment, then bent down and gathered the small, trembling hobbit into her arms.

 

“Calm down, dear child,” she said soothingly.  “Everything is fine.  Everyone is fine.  I’ll show ye where they all are.”

 

With that, Poppy marched in the direction of Mr. Saradoc’s rooms, drying the child’s tears with a corner of her apron as she went. 

 

On reaching her destination, Poppy set the little hobbit down on his feet. 

 

“There, now,” she said, pleased to see that Frodo had forgotten his fright in the face of the curious scene before him.  “I expect you have a new friend waiting to meet you, Mr. Frodo.”

 

Frodo looked back at Poppy in confusion, but the kind scullery maid only smiled back at him and motioned him forward.  Frodo turned around again, his wide eyes taking in all the missing hobbits, male and female, standing in the corridor, chattering excitedly.  He didn’t see Uncle Saradoc or Aunt Esmelda, but he did see an even dearer figure sitting on the bench against the wall.

 

A smile broke out on Frodo’s face that resembled the sun emerging from behind a cloud, and Frodo ran forward and flung himself into Bilbo’s startled arms.

 

“Frodo-lad!” the greying hobbit exclaimed.  “You’re just in time!  I’m to be the next allowed in, and you can come with me.”

 

Frodo was still quite naturally confused, but he allowed Bilbo to pull him up onto his lap, and was content to wait there, listening to the excited hobbits all around him.  Frodo was still smiling; his relatives all looked so joyful, he could hardly help it.

 

Soon enough, the door opened again, and Uncle Saradoc motioned Bilbo to enter.  When he saw that Frodo was there as well, Saradoc’s eyes lit up.

 

“Come along, Frodo, I want you to meet my son,” he said with a huge smile.

 

The other hobbits laughed to see little Frodo’s stunned expression, and then he was standing beside Bilbo and they were being led into Saradoc and Esmeralda’s rooms.

 

“Aunt Esmelda!”  Frodo whispered on sighting that lady.

 

Esmeralda grinned back at him.  She was propped up in bed, holding a small bundle.  Frodo suddenly felt a little shy around his favourite aunt, but Bilbo nudged him forward.

 

“Frodo, dear,” said Esmeralda.  “Come and meet your cousin Meriadoc.”

 

Frodo leaned forward, awestruck at the sight of the tiny face that was revealed when Esmeralda lowered a corner of the blanket.  The baby was tiny and perfect, and it merrily waved two tiny fists when it caught sight of Frodo.

 

Frodo hesitantly extended a finger and gently stroked one of the baby’s wee hands.  A delighted giggle escaped him when Meriadoc seized his finger and gurgled, half-closing a pair of chocolate brown eyes.  Frodo turned his head to see Uncle Bilbo standing just behind him, a gentle smile on his face as he watched Frodo.

 

“What do you think, Frodo-lad?”  he asked.

 

Frodo turned back to smile at Meriadoc.  “Hullo, Merrydoc,” young Frodo said, pronouncing the name uncertainly.  “I’m your cousin, Frodo Baggins, and I love you already.”

 

Esmeralda laughed softly, then pulled Frodo closer to her and soundly kissed his dark curls.  “I believe you will be dear friends always,” she said, and glanced up at her husband, seeing an answering smile in his warm brown eyes.  “And I think I shall call him Merry for short!”

 

 


	4. Admonishments

May 1388

 

Frodo Baggins sighed contentedly and raised his cerulean blue eyes to gaze at the broad wooden beams over his head.  The old barn was one of the few buildings in Buckland to be built aboveground, and most hobbit children steered well clear of it, deeming the place ‘unnatural’ and preferring to remain safely under the ground if they wanted to be indoors.  The barn was largely unused these days, except for the storage of excess foodstuffs immediately after the annual harvest.

 

Frodo himself had always avoided it when he was younger; Bolo had frightened him dreadfully with stories of a ghost that haunted the hayloft and liked to eat little hobbits.  The time Bolo had left him tied up alone in here had been a terrifying experience, to say the least.  But eventually, Frodo had seen the holes in Bolo’s logic (why would a ghost, which was dead, need to eat anything?), and Frodo’s curiosity had overcome his fear.  He had explored the barn thoroughly, and, finding no ghost, had made it his refuge of choice.

 

It was ideal, really.  Up here, Frodo could find peace and quiet to study his books, or just to think.  In a pinch, it was also an excellent place to hide from Bolo and his friends, since Bolo continued to believe that Frodo was afraid of the ghost. 

 

Frodo spent most of his time alone, when he wasn’t having lessons with the other children.  He often found his solitude in a quiet meadow or up a tree in the woods, but the hayloft was perfect on a rainy day like today, especially since Bolo and Reginard Took, a friend of Bolo’s who had been staying at Brandy Hall for the last fortnight, had been hunting Frodo all afternoon.  They were furious with him for not cooperating with them and accepting the blame for dropping an expensive porcelain bowl.  The bowl was one of old Mistress Mirabella’s and had been on display on a high shelf in the dining hall.  Bolo and Reginard were of course not supposed to be even touching it, but Bolo had wanted to take it down and try it on for a helmet, most likely for the purpose of impressing Reginard’s lovely sister, Amarantha, with his daring. 

 

Frodo had been there at the time, helping to clear the table after luncheon because one of his aunts had asked him to, when Bolo dropped the bowl.  It broke in two on striking the floor, and Old Rory himself heard the crash.  Bolo and Reginard immediately implicated Frodo, apologizing very convincingly for failing to stop the ‘rascally’ younger hobbit before the damage was done.  Frodo himself quite naturally denied any involvement or even awareness of the incident.

 

Unfortunately for Bolo and Reginard, Amarantha, the only other witness, having no romantic inclinations toward Bolo, had come forward and supported Frodo’s side.  Rorimac ordered a thrashing for the two older boys, along with extra chores for the next three days, and Frodo had escaped almost unscathed (Bolo had caught up with him a little later and kicked him hard in the shins). 

 

Frodo rubbed the bruise ruefully.  Bolo had undoubtedly wanted to do even more damage, since Frodo had embarrassed him in front of Amarantha (at least, that’s how Bolo would see it), but Frodo could be very quick and hard to hold on to when he needed to be.  He had lost Bolo quickly in the warren of passageways that comprised Brandy Hall, and now he was safely ensconced in his hayloft.

 

Stretching out on his stomach again, Frodo returned his attention to the book.  It was not one of his school books; Frodo found those rather dull and always did his lessons as quickly as possible to get them out of the way.  No, this was a special book, a history of the Elves, translated into Westron by his very own Uncle Bilbo.  It was a rather challenging read, even though Frodo’s reading skills were significantly superior to those of the other nineteen-year-old hobbits in Buckland.

 

Frodo looked up again at the sound of voices just outside the barn, and smiled grimly at the thought of his would-be trackers.

 

“D’you think he’s in here?”  That sounded like Reginard.

 

“I already told you, you dolt, he’s scared of the barn!”  Bolo replied irritably.  It had made Frodo feel oddly better when he’d discovered that Bolo wasn’t really much nicer to his ‘friends’ than he was to Frodo. 

 

“I’m getting hungry!” the impatient Took burst out.  “Let’s go get some more of Farmer Maggot’s mushrooms.”

 

Frodo raised an eyebrow.  He knew that Bolo often stole Farmer Maggot’s mushrooms and usually got away with it, but the one time Frodo himself had tried it, he had been caught and beaten by the crotchety old farmer.  Bolo had convinced him to come along that time, knowing the younger lad’s love of mushrooms and acting as if he was doing Frodo a favour, but Bolo had abandoned him the second they’d heard Farmer Maggot’s enraged yell, leaving Frodo holding most of the mushrooms.  Frodo had dropped the mushrooms immediately and tried to make a run for it, but Bolo was soon out of sight and Frodo had quickly become disoriented in the field of tall corn.  Farmer Maggot had apprehended the young thief easily.  Frodo had been only fifteen then, and a lot more gullible than he was now.

 

Bolo and Reginard now seemed to be heading away from the barn, and the last thing Frodo heard from them was Bolo agreeing to Reginard’s suggestion.  Frodo shrugged and picked up his book again.

 

* * *

 

 

Several hours later, Frodo was heading back into Brandy Hall.  The rain had stopped, although the sky was still overcast.  Frodo knew he had missed tea already, and if he didn’t hurry he would be late for supper.

 

Frodo hurried into the dining hall and took his customary seat beside his cousin Merry.

 

“Fwodo!” exclaimed Merry happily, dropping the spoon he’d been clutching with a clatter.

 

“Hullo, Merry,” Frodo replied, bending to pick up the spoon from the floor before planting a kiss on his six-year-old cousin’s curly brown head.  “What did you do today?”  Frodo liked to spend as much spare time as possible with Merry, and Aunt Esmeralda had already begun to let him baby-sit sometimes.

 

Merry paused to consider a reply to his adored older cousin.  “Well—me and Momma made out ‘structions, and then I played on my pony.”

 

Frodo smiled.  Merry was referring to his job of dipping Esmeralda’s quill in the ink pot while she carried out one of her many duties as future Mistress of Buckland: writing up instructions for the hobbits in charge of ordering and organizing the huge quantities of food that Brandy Hall consumed every week.  Merry’s ‘pony’ was a gaily-painted rocking-pony that Saradoc and Merimac had carved for the child last month.

 

“I’ll tell you what, Merry,” Frodo said to the child.  “If your momma allows it, I’ll take you to the stables tomorrow and show you the _big_ ponies.”

 

Merry’s little pink mouth popped open in delight and he turned to his other side, fastening his wide brown eyes beseechingly on his mother. 

 

Esmeralda smiled at Frodo over the top of Merry’s head.

 

“If you are a good boy all morning, Merry, then you may go with Frodo after elevensies,” she said to her son seriously.

 

Merry nodded vigorously, reaching out to grasp Frodo’s hand in his excitement.  “I’ll be real good!” he promised earnestly.

 

Frodo grinned and squeezed Merry’s hand approvingly, then reached out to begin serving himself the excellent food that had been put on the table during their conversation. 

 

A few minutes later, his mouth full of mashed potatoes, Merry tugged on Frodo’s sleeve to get his attention again.

 

“Fwodo?” he said hopefully.  “Can I _sit_ on one of the ponies?  I promise not to fall off!”

 

Frodo pretended to think about it for a moment.  “Well, all right,” he said finally.  “But you’ll have to hold on really tight!”  He had already been planning to let his cousin sit on old Mabelle, an extremely docile pony, knowing how much it would mean to Merry.

 

Merry nodded again, and turned eagerly back to his food.

 

* * *

 

 

After supper, Frodo returned his book to his room, which he thankfully no longer shared with Bolo.  Bolo had gotten a room of his own three years ago, and Frodo now shared with his ten-year-old cousin Berilac. 

 

Next, Frodo decided to head to Esmeralda and Saradoc’s rooms to see if he could play with Merry.  As he approached the doorway to Old Rory’s study, Frodo heard a noise behind him and, before he could react, found himself being roughly pushed into the study.  Turning around in surprise, Frodo found Bolo standing behind him, a satisfied smirk on his round face.  Bolo closed the door hastily and approached his smaller cousin.  Frodo tried not to show that he was worried, but with Bolo blocking the only exit, there wasn’t really any possible escape.

 

“You shouldn’t’ve made a fool of me today, Frodo Baggins,” Bolo said darkly, not taking his eyes off his cousin.  Frodo wisely refrained from pointing out that Bolo had made a fool of himself without any assistance from anyone. 

 

For the next several minutes, Bolo simply stood in front of the door, smiling ominously at Frodo.  Frodo was just beginning to wish Bolo would do whatever it was he’d been planning and get it over with, when they both heard the shuffling steps of Old Rory himself, approaching from down the hallway.  When the footsteps sounded as if they had reached the corner, several things happened at once.  Bolo grabbed a vase off the shelf next to him, pulled the door open behind him, and tossed the vase directly at a very surprised Frodo.

 

“Catch!”  Bolo whispered maliciously, before stepping backward to make his escape. 

 

Panic fluttered in Frodo’s stomach for a fraction of a second; the vase was quite large and unwieldy, there was no way he could catch it!  But somehow he managed, miraculously, and ended up holding the thing clumsily against his chest.

 

It would have nonetheless been an excellent revenge scheme, given Old Rory’s intolerance for hobbit lads playing in his study, except Bolo’s timing was slightly off:  He had waited too long to run, and collided with Old Rory on his way out.  Rorimac staggered but maintained a tight grip on the squirming Bolo, and peered into his study in dismay.

 

“Frodo Baggins!  Bolo Brandybuck!  What are you boys doing in my study, handling things you shouldn’t be?!”  the old hobbit thundered.  “Shame on both of you!”  Rorimac was rather surprised to see that Frodo was involved in this mischief; the lad was usually so quiet and well-behaved.  No matter.  Both boys had to be punished. 

 

Old Rory put the thankfully undamaged vase back in place and made the two boys sit in the chairs facing his desk.  Glaring at them sternly, he demanded an explanation.  Bolo, still struggling with bitter disappointment at the failure of his plan, couldn’t muster a single excuse or plea.  Frodo was still too shocked by the whole thing to find his tongue, and he knew the evidence was against him anyway.  There was no Amarantha to save him this time.

 

“Very well,” said Old Rory when it was clear that no response would be forthcoming.  “Miss Celosia mentioned needing some herbs for her medicine box.  You boys will get the list from her and find those herbs!  And don’t come home until you have them all!”  Rorimac shouted, chasing the boys out and closing the study’s round door with a bang.

 

Out in the hallway, the boys could do no more than stare blankly at each other for a moment.

 

“Come on then,” Frodo said finally, turning in the direction of the herbalist’s room.  Bolo jammed his hands angrily in his pockets and followed, knowing he could not disobey Old Rory.

 

 


	5. Adventure and Peril

Four hours later, it was quite dark, and Bolo and Frodo were wandering in the woods that surrounded Buckland.  The boys had obtained the list from Miss Celosia and found most of the herbs fairly easily.  They had wandered quite far in search of the final item, and Frodo was beginning to suspect they were lost.

 

“What was that last thing again?”  Bolo asked, intensely annoyed by the necessity of having to cooperate with Frodo on this task.

 

“White horehound,” came the reply.  Frodo was quite tired by this time and wanted nothing more than to be home in his bed.  “It grows one to three feet high with small white flowers, and it’s covered by fine white hairs.” 

 

If truth be told, Frodo wasn’t any happier about the situation than Bolo was.  He wished his cousin could have left well enough alone, rather than getting them both in trouble with his silly effort at revenge.  Frodo smirked, remembering the expression on Bolo’s face when Amarantha had supported Frodo instead of him. 

 

Bolo the Beastly.  Bolo the Brutish and Beastly.  Bolo the—?  Frodo continued to amuse himself with the silly name game, happy in the knowledge that Bolo couldn’t possibly hear his thoughts.  He could keep this up for ages; his fondness for books had given Frodo an excellent vocabulary.

 

Bolo swung his lantern in an arc and scowled.  “We haven’t seen anything like that!”

 

“I think it grows nearer the river,” Frodo replied, giving up on his game for the moment.

 

“Well, where’s the river?!”

 

“I don’t know,” Frodo sighed.  For some time, they had been able to hear the river roaring in the distance, but it was too far away to tell what direction it was.  “I’m afraid we’re lost, Bolo.”

 

Bolo had suspected this for some time, but he nonetheless glared at his younger cousin furiously.  “This is all your fault, you know!”

 

“Really,” said Frodo listlessly.  Bolo the Blameless.  Perhaps Bolo the Barmy?  They had already had this argument many times this evening, and Frodo had no desire to repeat it yet again.  They should have gone back hours ago, but neither boy had wanted to admit defeat, and now they didn’t know which way was back.

 

The two boys finally sat down on a log.  Aha!  Bolo the Boring!  That was rather a good one.  Frodo set his lantern down by his feet and looked up at the stars he could see through the gaps in the trees.  Then his eyes came to rest on the tree spreading out directly above him. 

 

“Maybe if I climbed that tree, I could hear the river better,” Frodo suggested thoughtfully.  He really didn’t feel like climbing a large tree in the dark, but he couldn’t think of any better ideas.

 

“Fine, do it then,” snapped Bolo. 

 

It was too dark to see the expression on Bolo’s face, but Frodo suspected he was becoming a bit frightened by their situation.  Normally, Bolo would say something much nastier in response to any suggestion of Frodo’s. 

 

Bolo the Balding?  Hmm, that might be a good one to bear in mind for the future.  Aha!  Bolo the Belligerent!  Now why hadn’t he thought of that one before now?  Frodo shrugged and approached a nearby tree that appeared to be fairly tall, and began to climb.  He couldn’t see a thing in the inky darkness, so he went slowly and carefully.  When he was as high as he could safely go, perhaps twenty-five feet off the ground, Frodo held as still as he could and listened.  The forest was very quiet, but he could still hear the distant rushing of the Brandywine.

 

Frodo looked up at the stars.  They were beautiful.  Frodo smiled to see them so clearly, without the lights of Buckland to get in the way.  Then his gaze dropped, and he saw something he did not expect to see: lanterns moving, down near the forest floor!  They were perhaps a hundred yards away from him and Bolo, and they blinked in and out as they were concealed and revealed by thicker parts of the forest canopy.  Frodo’s heart began to pound.  He knew they were quite far from Brandy Hall, probably very close to the Hedge that separated Buckland from the Old Forest.  Anyone out this far might not be a hobbit, especially this late at night.  They were likely Big Folk, wandering along the Hedge from the south.

 

Frodo quelled his panic with an effort.  He had never seen a Big Person before, and he knew there were many different types, but he had heard about the ruthless and warlike Men who sometimes passed to the southeast of the Shire.  Bilbo himself had told him such Men were dangerous. 

 

“Bolo!”  Frodo hissed, turning back to the ground.  “I think I see Men coming!  We mustn’t be seen!”

 

Bolo gasped and jumped up.  “Which way?”

 

“Straight ahead of you and a little to the left.”

 

Bolo immediately seized his lantern and ran back in the direction he’d come.  The other lantern remained on the ground, resting in a slight depression, but still lit and shining like a beacon to the approaching Men.

 

“Bolo!” cried Frodo.  “Put out the lanterns and help me get down!”

 

But the cowardly Bolo was already out of earshot. 

 

“Bolo the Bane of My Existence,” Frodo muttered to himself, feeling rather proud of that one. 

 

Realizing he would get no help, Frodo quickly started to climb down on his own.  It might have been better to hide up in the tree, but not with that lantern still giving him away down there.  He had to extinguish it!  He knew he should be careful, but he felt the urgency of the situation so keenly that he descended rather faster than was wise in the dim light cast by the lantern on the ground. 

 

Frodo gasped as he bumped into a branch directly in front of him that he hadn’t seen as he crawled rapidly toward the trunk.  It was too dark, he thought in frustration.  He could hear distant noises in the underbrush, as might be expected from a group of Big Folk walking in the forest.  Actually, they weren’t really very distant any longer.  Frodo couldn’t hear them talking, but he could see the lanterns still bobbing towards him.  They would be close enough to see his lantern in only moments.

 

Nearly panicking now, Frodo finally reached one of the thick, sturdy lower branches.  From the flickering lamplight below him, he estimated he was about five feet off the ground; surely that was low enough to jump?  His fingers were pressed into the rough bark so tightly that his small hands were beginning to go numb.

 

Deciding quickly, Frodo wriggled onto his stomach and eased himself off the branch, until he was hanging by his hands.  He was right next to the trunk; he could feel the rough bark grazing the side of his right leg.  Regardless, he was not strong enough to hold on very long.  The Men sounded close enough to see him any second now.  Squeezing his eyes shut, Frodo released his hold on the branch and allowed himself to drop.

 

First, Frodo felt his stomach flip-flop as he began to fall, and burning pain as his leg scraped along the trunk.  Immediately after that, Frodo felt the impact of an even sturdier branch on his small body.  Dazed by the pain along his torso, Frodo dimly realized his error: he hadn’t climbed down far enough!  There were more branches below the position he’d dropped from.  He was falling much too far, certainly more than five feet.  The flickering lantern seemed to rush up at him, and he felt a terrific impact on his hands and knees.  Then, quite suddenly, everything was startlingly dark and still.

 

For what seemed like an eternity, Frodo lay on the solid ground, hearing and feeling nothing except his heart pounding and his own gasping breaths.  Above the roaring in his ears, he suddenly heard rustling in the bushes on the other side of the path.  The Men!  Without another thought, Frodo scrambled back to his hands and knees and scurried under the shrubbery on the nearer side of the path.  He lay quite still under the bushes, amazed that he’d been able to move so quickly after a fall from such a great height.  The thought ‘Bolo the Berserk’ came to him with such astonishing clarity that he had to suppress a hysterical giggle.

 

Then, quite suddenly, the pain came crashing upon him as sensation was finally conveyed to his dazed brain.  It seemed to come from all over at once, and Frodo nearly cried out in his agony.  He could hear the Big Folk’s voices as though from a great distance, but he knew they were no more than two steps away from him, and he must not make a sound.

 

All along his back and legs, Frodo’s skin felt like it was on fire.  He knew he must have been badly scraped by the tree’s rough bark as he fell through the branches, but why was the hand that was awkwardly trapped under his back so hot and sticky?  Frodo moved his fingers experimentally, hardly daring to breathe for fear the Men would find him.  His back felt wet, for some reason, and his fingers kept bumping into what felt like small, sharp stones . . . or glass?  Frodo realized with a start that he must have fallen on his lantern.   Well, that was a relief!  Now the Men wouldn’t see the light and be looking for him!  Frodo let out a breath he’d been holding.  Maybe he was safe, then!

 

Frodo frowned, realizing he hadn’t heard any noises from the Men for awhile.  Had they moved on then?  Frodo lifted his tingling right arm and drew aside the bough of shrubbery in front of his face to see if the path was clear. 

 

Frodo raised his head a little to have a look.  His azure eyes widened and his throat went dry as toast in an instant; Frodo found himself looking directly at an impossibly long, sharp-looking piece of steel.  Some distant part of his mind, which wasn’t involved in panicking at that moment, noted with fascination that this must be a _sword_ he was staring at.  Frodo tried to swallow past a tongue that felt like a wad of cotton, and raised his round blue eyes slowly.

 

 


	6. The Big People

Still half-laying on the cold, damp ground, Frodo finally looked past the huge sword pointing straight at him to see a shadowy figure towering above.  Frodo froze in place, holding his position as though he had grown roots.  This was it, then.   This wild and dangerous Man would kill him and his kin would never know what had happened.  Uncle Bilbo would be heartbroken.  Frodo didn’t think his Brandybuck relations would notice his absence very much, but at least he could hope that Bolo would be punished for leaving his cousin behind to die.

 

His wide blue eyes still fixed unblinkingly on the sword in front of him, Frodo started when he heard the wielder of the sword speak.

 

“Elrohir!”  The Big Person hissed.  “Let’s have your lantern up here!”

 

Frodo frowned as another Big Person came forward with a lantern.  ‘Elrohir’ wasn’t a Mannish name, was it?  It sounded almost . . . Elvish.  A soft light was suddenly cast on Frodo’s face, and he blinked at the sudden brightness.

 

“Periannath!” breathed a new voice, and this voice was very different; less harsh, more musical than the first.  Frodo had always imagined an Elf would have such a voice.  Was he going to meet Elves, then, he wondered with a thrill that made him dizzy.

 

And then, miraculously, the sword was being lowered, then sheathed, and its wielder was crouching down slowly to look at Frodo face to face.

 

“I apologize, little one,” the Big Person said, much more gently than the first time he’d spoken.  “My companions and I intend you no harm.  Can you tell me your name?”

 

“Frodo Baggins, at your service.”  Frodo made the correct response automatically, somehow managing to speak past the wad of cotton that was his tongue.  Now that the threat of imminent death was apparently over, the numbness was beginning to clear from his mind; Frodo was becoming aware of the injuries he’d sustained falling out of the tree.  The tingling in his right arm had faded away, leaving his wrist and forearm throbbing most alarmingly.  His many scratches and bruises were stinging and aching, as well. 

 

Frodo tried to focus on the Big Folk.  A third figure had glided up noiselessly, a second lantern in hand.  In the brighter light, Frodo could now make out more details.  Of the two with lanterns, one was dark and the other fair, but somehow Frodo knew they were both Elves; an unearthly glow that had naught to do with the lanterns seemed to emanate from them.  He wasn’t sure about the Big Person that crouched in front of him, watching with grey eyes that suddenly seemed kind. 

 

“He appears to be hurt,” murmured the fair Elf, holding his lantern over the small hobbit.

 

“I was lost, and I fell out of the tree,” Frodo volunteered hesitantly.  He didn’t think these three meant to harm him, but would they be willing to assist him?

 

“Can you stand?” asked the Big Person with the sword.

 

“Yes, sir,” Frodo said hesitantly.  He scrambled to get his feet under him, then started to push himself up with both hands.  The skin on his back screamed in protest at the motion.  He thought he felt something shift in his right wrist, and then he felt a blinding pain.  Frodo somehow made it to a standing position before the pain overwhelmed him, and he found himself pitching forward into darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

Estel gave a short cry of surprise as the tiny Halfling crumpled into his arms.  His companions quickly set down their lanterns and moved to assist him.  The fair one removed his heavy cloak and placed it hastily around the little figure.  It had been, to say the least, surprising to find a Halfling child on the outskirts of the Shire, alone so late at night. 

 

“Thank you, Legolas,” Estel said, recovering his composure quickly.  “Let’s lay him down, carefully now.”

 

Legolas gently took the Halfling from Estel’s arms and settled him on the ground, still wrapped in the cloak.  Estel motioned to Elrohir, and the dark-haired elf came closer, holding his lantern aloft.

 

Frodo awakened at that point, looking around in confusion.

 

“What happened?” he asked groggily.

 

“You fainted, little one,” Legolas replied.  “My companion is a healer; he will examine you, if you do not object.”  Frodo nodded his agreement, and Estel began his examination of the child.

 

“Are you an Elf, sir?” Frodo asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.

 

Legolas inclined his head in elegant affirmation.  “I am,” he said.  “As is Elrohir.”

 

“And are you a Man, sir?” Frodo inquired of Estel.

 

“I am indeed, Frodo Baggins,” Estel replied.  He was amused by the question.  This Halfling child clearly had little experience of the world outside the Shire.  “How did you guess my race?”

 

“You aren’t as fair as the others,” Frodo answered innocently, not realizing the implied insult to his benefactor.  The two Elves laughed musically, and Frodo thought he had never heard a more beautiful sound.  The Man merely glared briefly at his companions and turned back to his work.

 

Estel had been well trained in the healing arts by his foster father, Elrond Halfelven.  Even without the conversation as an indicator, Estel could see that the dark, curly head was uninjured.  What he could see of the legs was scratched and still bleeding, and the knees were badly bruised.  The small brown cloak and the white shirt beneath were torn and stained red in places, so Estel removed them, fumbling with the tiny buttons on the shirt. 

 

Examining the small back, he discovered extensive bruising and several cuts.  He felt carefully all along the chest and back, eliciting a whimper when he pressed on a bruise.  No ribs broken.  Judging by the crash they had heard, and the broken lantern lying nearby, the cuts had been made by shards of glass.  The cuts were bleeding profusely but did not appear to be deep enough to scar.  Estel cleaned them carefully, applied a salve, and bandaged them using supplies from his pack.  Frodo clenched his small hands until the knuckles turned white while his cuts were being cleaned, but he sighed in relief at the feeling of the cool, odd-smelling salve being applied to his wounds.

 

There were some scratches on both arms, but the right wrist was swollen and discoloured.  Feeling carefully along the tiny forearm while Frodo gritted his teeth in determination not to cry out, Estel discovered a break just above the wrist.  He set it as well as he could, then splinted and bandaged it.  Frodo could not help crying a little as the arm was splinted, but Elrohir’s hand on his shoulder proved oddly soothing.  Estel quickly finished his examination of the Halfling and determined it was safe to move him. 

 

“Let us set up camp in that clearing a few minutes back,” Estel said to his companions.  “We will get no further tonight.”

 

Legolas and Elrohir nodded in agreement and set off through the underbrush to make the preparations.  Frodo watched with round eyes, trying to ignore the pain in his arm.  It had hurt dreadfully when the Man set the broken bone.  Frodo wondered if they were going to leave him now, and how he would find his way back to Brandy Hall in the middle of the night, for it surely must be near midnight by this time.

 

“Frodo,” said Estel.  “We are too far from any Halfling settlements to take you to one tonight.  We will keep you with us and return you in the morning.  But I must know, what you were doing out here by yourself?”

 

Frodo told him about the herb-hunting expedition with his older cousin, and their search for the elusive white horehound plant.

 

“And where is this Bolo now?” asked the Man.

 

“I don’t know, sir,” Frodo said.  “He ran away when we saw you coming.”

 

Estel frowned at this news.  “We will have to search for him then.  If he did not find his way home, he could be in danger.”

 

“Truly?” asked Frodo, a little bewildered.  “There aren’t any dangerous animals in these woods.”

 

“Not normally,” sighed Estel.  “My companions and I have been hunting a Warg for the last ten days.  We followed its tracks to this point, and it may still be in the area.  Most likely it has moved on already, North and far from the Shire by now, but I cannot take the risk.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” said Frodo, somewhat awed by the concern this Man showed for a few small Hobbit lads he didn’t even know.  Frodo wasn’t sure what a Warg was, but it sounded dreadful.

 

“And where do you live, Frodo?” inquired the Man.

 

“We come from Buckland, sir,” Frodo answered.  “And we would be grateful for any help you could give us in finding our way back.”

 

Estel smiled at him.  “You look exhausted, little one,” he said, lifting the child carefully into his arms.  “I will take you to our campsite so that you can sleep, and we will take you home on the morrow.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ten minutes later, the Halfling child was sound asleep, wrapped snugly in Legolas’s robe to keep out the chill of the early March night.  Frodo had been given a warm cup of kingsfoil tea to dull his pain as soon as the camp-fire was hot enough to heat the water. 

 

Estel related the information about Bolo to his two companions, and they agreed that the other child must be found.  The Warg tracks they had been following were at least a day old, but that didn’t mean the animal wasn’t still about.  Legolas offered to go and search for the missing child, and Estel agreed readily.  They had traveled far today, and he was too weary for a long search.  Legolas, on the other hand, looked as fresh as when they’d first set out from Imladris.

 

Estel smiled at the thought.  He did not know Legolas very well, but the fair Elf had been visiting Imladris from his home in Mirkwood and had gallantly offered to accompany Estel and Elrond’s son, Elrohir, when news of the stray Warg was received.

 

Elrohir was asleep on the other side of the camp-fire; Estel had insisted upon taking first watch.  He turned his attention to the small Halfling, noting that a few dark curls were all that could be seen of the lad, who had burrowed deeply into Legolas’s cloak for warmth.  Estel had little experience of the Halflings, but this one looked to be quite young.  Adult Halflings were generally three to four feet tall, and this tiny specimen stood barely two feet tall.  He estimated that Frodo would be perhaps eight or nine years old if he were a Man-child.

 

Soon enough, the watch was over and he moved to wake Elrohir with a shake of the Elf’s shoulder.

 

“Sleep well, my friend,” murmured Elrohir, sitting up to take his post.

 


	7. Homecoming

Frodo awakened some time later and looked about in confusion.  He had heard an unearthly howl, far in the distance.  It was quite dark, but there was a fire flickering merrily nearby.  He was wrapped in a soft, thick blanket . . . no, not a blanket.  It was the cloak given to him by one of the Fair Folk.  His memories were a bit muddled, but suddenly Frodo remembered where he was and how he had come here. 

 

The pain in his right arm had dulled to a steady throb, and he felt over the bandages that covered it wonderingly.  Mindful of his injuries, Frodo sat up carefully.  Looking across the small camp-fire in front of him, he saw that the dark-haired Elf was perched elegantly on a log at the edge of the flickering circle of firelight, gazing alertly out into the shadowy forest. 

 

Frodo turned to his other side and was startled to find the Man sleeping just behind him, no more than a step away.  There was no one else in the camp.  The other Elf must still be out looking for Bolo.  Frodo sighed and turned back to face the fire.  He certainly had no great fondness for his cousin, but Frodo was not a vindictive child, and he would not wish harm on another.  He hoped the Elf would come back soon, with his cousin safely in tow.

 

Staring into the flames, Frodo felt eyes upon him.  He looked up to find Elrohir watching him thoughtfully.

 

“Are you still in pain, little one?” the Elf inquired.

 

“I am well,” Frodo replied automatically. 

 

The Elf arched an eyebrow.  “Indeed?”

 

“Truly,” said Frodo.  “I am only wondering about Bolo and the other Elf.”  And he was not really lying; Frodo felt sore all over, but the pain was bearable now.

 

“Do not concern yourself, Frodo,” the Elf responded with a smile.  “My companion is swift of foot; he will find your kin, and they will be here soon.  In fact,” he paused, staring intently into the forest, “I believe they approach even now.”

 

Frodo peered in the same direction, but all he could see were dark trees.  The sky seemed to have lightened in the last few minutes, though.  It must be nearly dawn.

 

Elrohir rose smoothly to his feet and took a few steps toward the trees, calling something in a different language.  A reply came back immediately, sounding distant.  Frodo recognized the language as Elvish, and wished desperately that he could understand the beautiful words.  Bilbo had taught him a little, but Frodo knew only a few phrases so far.  Frodo barely noticed that the Man behind him had awakened and emerged from his bedroll. 

 

Soon enough, even Frodo could hear what sounded like two pairs of feet striding through the underbrush, one pair much more softly than the other.  When two figures finally emerged from the shadowy forest, Frodo stared at them from his position on the ground near the fire.  The fair Elf looked as calm and collected as when Frodo had seen him last night, but he was firmly gripping the upper arm of a white-faced, slack-jawed hobbit lad whom Frodo had known much longer.  Frodo was glad to see that Bolo still carried the small pouch that contained the herbs they had been sent out to collect, although the little hobbit-lantern that Bolo had run off with was nowhere in sight.

 

“Frodo?” gasped Bolo when his fearful gaze finally fell on his small cousin.  “You’re alive!”

 

“Indeed I am, Cousin,” Frodo replied indignantly.  He was too well bred to add, ‘no thanks to you,’ especially in front of strangers, but he could not forget how Bolo had abandoned him to danger the night before.  “These Big Folk have been very kind,” he said instead.

 

“Well met, Bolo Brandybuck,” said Elrohir politely, when Bolo finally noticed the other Elf.

 

“Come and have breakfast with us,” offered Estel.  “Then we shall take you both home.”

 

Bolo still seemed to be in shock at his first meeting with Big Folk, and he remained uncharacteristically quiet as Estel passed out some dried meat and fruit.  Bolo and Frodo did not eat as much as hobbit lads normally would, Bolo because he couldn’t stop staring at the weaponry worn by all three Big People, and Frodo because his wounds had started to bother him again now that he was moving around, and he could not concentrate properly on the food.

 

After everyone had eaten and packed up their possessions, Estel unwrapped Frodo from the huge cloak he had occupied all night to check his bandages.

 

“Well, Master Baggins,” the Man said finally.  “Your cuts have all closed, and no infection has set in.  You’ll need to get that arm plastered when you get home, but the splint should do for now.  We’ll use this bandage as a sling, I think.  It should be just the right size.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” Frodo said, as Estel tied the makeshift sling around the Hobbit’s neck and gently placed the injured arm within.  Frodo was starting to worry about the long walk home; every movement he made pulled at his closed cuts and made his bruises ache.

 

“Well, then,” said the Man, getting to his feet.  “Let’s be off.  Elrohir, will you be so good as to carry our young friend here?  I don’t want him moving overmuch and reopening those cuts.”

 

“Indeed I shall,” Elrohir replied.  He bent down and lifted Frodo easily, and the small group set off, with Bolo walking meekly in between Estel and Legolas.

 

* * *

 

 

They halted for a brief rest almost two hours later.  The day was clear and bright, with no trace of yesterday’s clouds and intermittent drizzle.  Frodo and Bolo were sitting side by side against a large stump at the edge of the path, while the Big Folk refilled their water flasks in a shallow brook running nearby.

 

“What happened to your arm, brat?” Bolo was evidently back to his usual surly self, as he usually was in the absence of adults.

 

“I fell out of a tree and broke it,” Frodo retorted.

 

“You’ve always been clumsy,” Bolo snorted.  “Must be the Baggins in you.”

 

“Well, maybe if you’d stayed around long enough to guide me down in the dark, like a good and loyal Brandybuck, then I wouldn’t have fallen,” Frodo replied, but his heart wasn’t in it.  After meeting two Elves and one Man, Bolo was starting to seem small and insignificant in comparison.

 

Before Bolo could work out that Frodo had insulted him, the Big Folk were coming back from the brook.

 

“We’ve picked up the Warg trail down by the brook, young Halflings,” said Estel when he saw them.  “They are only a few hours old, and they lead away from the Shire.  I’m afraid Elrohir and I must part company and continue the hunt.”

 

“I will accompany you the rest of the way home,” the fair Elf added.  “Come along now, little ones.  We’re no more than two hours away.”

 

The hobbits perked up at this news.  Frodo thanked the Man and the dark Elf for their kindness, and Estel presented a small gift in return.

 

“Take this, and be well,” the Man said, removing a small bag from his pack and offering it to Frodo.

 

Frodo accepted the gift and looked closely at the contents.  “White horehound!” he exclaimed, recognizing the final item on their list of herbs to find for Miss Celosia.  But when he looked up again, the two Big People were gone, and he was alone with Bolo and the fair Elf.

 

* * *

 

 

Several hours later, two hobbits and an Elf emerged from the woods near Brandy Hall.   Legolas was carrying Frodo, whom he laid gently in the grass.  He could see several Periannath working in fields nearby, but he did not wish to alarm the Little Folk by going any closer.

 

“Now then, Bolo,” said the Elf.  “Run into the smial and bring out Frodo’s parents.”

 

“Frodo hasn’t got any parents!”  Bolo blurted out.  Frodo looked away.

 

“I see,” said Legolas tactfully.  “Then please go inside and summon any adult for me to speak with.”

 

Bolo took off at once, glad to be away from the frightening Big Person and his irksome little cousin.  Legolas waited patiently with Frodo, neither of them speaking.  Frodo was absorbed in trying to imagine what his relatives would think.  He was already reckoned to be a mischievous lad because of all the scrapes he seemed to get into, but this had to be the strangest yet. 

 

Presently, a small party of Periannath, led by Bolo, emerged from Brandy Hall and hurried over, looking with amazement at the fair and dignified Elf sitting beside Frodo.

 

“Frodo-lad!” exclaimed Saradoc, coming forward to cup Frodo’s face in his hands.  “Where have you been?  I came to see you this morning and found your bed hadn’t been slept in, and we realized you were missing along with Bolo!”

 

“Good day, sir,” said Legolas smoothly.  “My companions and I found the two young ones lost deep in the forest last night.”

 

“You have my gratitude, sir,” replied Saradoc, finally turning to the Elf with a formal bow.  “We are all in your debt for returning them to us.”

 

Legolas inclined his head in acknowledgement, and quickly explained Frodo’s injuries to Saradoc.  The adult hobbit listened attentively, but they were interrupted by a shrill exclamation.

 

“Oh, my darling Bolo!” cried Bolo’s mother, Pyrimidine, as she emerged from Brandy Hall after the others.  “Thank you, thank you, Master Elf, for returning my precious child!  I was beside myself when you didn’t come home last night!  My dearest Bolokins, did that odd child get you in trouble again?”  Here she paused to glare at Frodo.

 

Frodo grimaced.  His Aunt Pyrimidine’s endless fawning over her son never failed to make Frodo gag, and somehow she always managed to blame Frodo for all Bolo’s faults.  Frodo was sure that Bolo himself had something to do with this.  Legolas glanced down at the dark-haired child beside him.

 

“Madam,” said Legolas, rising gracefully to his feet.  “You are most welcome.  However, I feel I am honour-bound to relate to you the tale of your son’s conduct last night.”

 

Bolo suddenly averted his eyes, but the Elf’s commanding presence caught everyone else’s attention. 

 

“When my companions and I found Frodo, he had just fallen from a tree; he was alone and injured,” began Legolas solemnly.  “We soon discovered that this unfortunate circumstance was the result of young Bolo running off when they believed themselves to be in danger, refusing to help his cousin out of the tree.”  The Elf frowned in disapproval.  “No Elven warrior would ever be guilty of such a cowardly act, and I hope you will take measures to correct the little one’s morals before they become too deeply ingrained.”

 

The listening hobbits were appalled.  Even among the peace-loving Shirefolk, it was extremely dishonourable to abandon one’s kin, especially a child, to dangerous circumstances.  Bolo had begun to edge away while Legolas was talking, but Saradoc halted him with a firm hand on his shoulder.

 

“Thank you again, Master Elf,” Saradoc said grimly.  “I promise you, the boy will be dealt with.”

 

Legolas nodded in approval.  He retained his stern countenance, but when he glanced at Frodo, the lad saw the Elf’s eyes twinkle with merriment.  Frodo blinked, not certain he’d interpreted the dignified Elf’s expression correctly.  Frodo suddenly recalled that he was still wrapped in a huge cloak that did not belong to him, and he began fumbling to remove it.  Legolas immediately bent down to assist him, and his long, clever fingers made quick work of the ties.  A hobbit lady came forward to wrap the child in her bright yellow shawl, and Legolas donned his cloak.

 

“I will take my leave, then,” Legolas said to the assembled Periannath, satisfied that Frodo would be cared for.  “Farewell!”

 

Frodo found himself being gently picked up by Uncle Merimac, but he had thought of something he wanted to say to the Elf.

 

“Master Elf!” the small Hobbit called out.  Legolas turned to look back at Frodo, arching an eyebrow inquiringly. 

 

Frodo took a deep breath.  “Elen sila lumenn’ omentielvo!” he said in a clear voice, being careful of the pronunciation.  It was the only complete sentence in the high-elven speech that he had mastered.

 

Legolas smiled when he heard the child’s words, and bowed deeply in reply.  Frodo watched the mysterious elf vanish silently into the forest, feeling awed and humbled to know that he had spoken to one of that wise, immortal race in their own ancient tongue.

 

“What did you say, lad?” asked Merimac curiously, turning back to carry Frodo into Brandy Hall.

 

“It means ‘A star shines on the hour of our meeting,’” Frodo replied with a joyful smile.

 

 


	8. Recovery and Retribution

The following afternoon, Frodo was resting in his room at Brandy Hall.  Saradoc had summoned Dr. Bracegirdle the day before, and Frodo now sported a rigid plaster bandage around his broken arm.  The good doctor had strongly recommended that Frodo remain in bed for a day or two, allowing his cuts to heal completely, and icing his bruised knees and back.

 

So, here he remained.  Frodo was resting on his stomach to accommodate the bag of ice that perched on his back.  One of the maids had been instructed to bring him fresh ice up from the ice cellar every four hours.  He had used the last batch on his knees.  The cuts on his back were still bandaged, and had been subjected to a liberal application of one of Miss Celosia’s healing salves. 

 

The elderly herbalist had been delighted indeed to receive the abundance of supplies that Frodo and Bolo had gathered, and she seemed determined to repay Frodo at least by making up samples of all her best (and apparently most odd-smelling) ointments for the lad to try.  Frodo smiled wryly at the thought.  He didn’t think the wrinkle-reducing lotion would be much use.  It wasn’t as if he had any wrinkles.  Perhaps he should give it to Old Rory... 

 

Frodo was starting to appreciate the healing salve, though.  His skin didn’t smart nearly as much when he shifted position anymore, as his cuts were now pleasantly numb.  The bruises, slightly lower on his back, were also numb, thanks to the ice.

 

Frodo wondered what was happening to Bolo.  He hadn’t seen the older hobbit since their return, which made him rather happy.  He supposed Old Rory would decide his cousin’s punishment; that was the usual procedure when an errant child in Brandy Hall had to be disciplined for a misdeed that involved more than just members of the child’s immediate family.

 

There was a book propped open against the wall in front of him, but Frodo didn’t really feel like reading.  He had slept most of yesterday and all last night, exhausted from the activity of the night before, but now he wanted to daydream and think about his adventure.  He wondered if the Man and his two Elven friends had succeeded in hunting down the Warg.  Frodo sighed and closed his eyes.  Whether they had killed the creature already or not, they were certainly far from Buckland by now.  He would most likely not see any of them again.  The child wondered wistfully what far-off lands the three Big People had seen in their travels.

 

Frodo’s very un-hobbitlike musings were interrupted by a faint creak as his door was pushed open.  Frodo opened his eyes and tried awkwardly to turn around without dislodging the ice on his lower back.

 

“Fwodo?” said Merry’s voice.

 

“Merry-lad!” exclaimed Frodo in delight.  “Come over here by the bed, where I can see you!”

 

Merry did not need any further encouragement to approach Frodo’s bedside, and Frodo reached out to ruffle the light brown curls affectionately.  “I’m sorry I didn’t get to show you the stables like I said I would, Merry,” Frodo said.

 

“That’s alright,” replied Merry cheerfully.  “Momma told me you got hurt, and you’d take me later.  You will, won’t you?” the child asked, sounding a bit worried now.

 

“Of course I will!” Frodo declared.  “After all, I promised didn’t I?  I always mean to keep my promises.  We’ll go as soon as I’m allowed out of this room.”

 

Merry chortled in delight and clambered up on the bed beside his older cousin.  He gasped softly when he caught sight of the dark purplish bruises on Frodo’s bare back.  Merry bent down and placed a feather-light kiss in the center of the bruised area.  “There,” he said matter-of-factly.  “Now I’ve kissed it better.”

 

“Thank you, Merry-lad,” said Frodo, rather touched by his little cousin’s consideration.  “But where is your momma this afternoon?  Does she know where you are?”  Mindful of the lack of supervision he had always received at Brandy Hall, Frodo did his best to see that Merry did not experience any similar neglect.

 

“’Course she does,” the child replied, gently replacing the bag of half-melted ice on Frodo’s lower back.  “She’s getting you your tea in the kitchen, and I ran on ahead.”

 

“Glad to hear it, Cousin,” said Frodo with a smile. 

 

“Does it hurt, Fwodo?”  Merry was examining the cast on Frodo’s right arm.

 

“Not really,” Frodo answered, almost truthfully.  “At least, not much anymore.  The doctor said I have to keep the plaster on for six weeks.  I’ll need lots of help turning pages until then, Merry!”

 

Merry fairly bounced with excitement at this teasing proclamation.  “Truly, Cousin?” he cried.  “Then will you read me a story, and I’ll turn the pages for you now?”

 

“Certainly,” Frodo replied.  He had just passed a very short tale in the book he had propped open.  It was about a Dwarfish king and his battles to defend his mines from a foul dragon.  He knew Merry would enjoy it.

 

The two hobbit lads passed an enjoyable few minutes in this way, with Merry holding up the book and turning the pages as Frodo signalled him to.  After the story, they settled on the bed again.  Frodo closed his eyes.

 

“Know what, Fwodo?” Merry said suddenly.  “Cousin Bolo’s going to have a bitter couple of weeks.”

 

“Oh?” asked Frodo.  He supposed Merry had been present at luncheon, when Old Rory would have announced Bolo’s punishment.

 

“He’s getting thrashed this afternoon,” Merry whispered, his brown eyes round.  “And he has to muck out all the pony stalls every day for the next _three months_!”

 

Frodo raised his eyebrows.  That ought to keep Bolo busy.  Old Rory must have been very angry.

 

“And that’s not all,” Merry added conspiratorially.  “He has to help the cooks wash the dishes after elevenses, luncheon, afternoon tea, and supper every day for a fortnight.”

 

Frodo couldn’t help smiling at this thought, although he didn’t want little Merry to see him exulting in the misfortunes of another.

 

“He was real mean to you, wasn’t he, Fwodo?” Merry asked softly.

 

“He behaved very badly, yes,” Frodo replied after a moment.

 

“Then I’m glad he’s getting punished,” little Merry said stoutly.  “Oh, I almost forgot!  He also has to... ‘pologize to you.”

 

“Really?” said Frodo.  That would certainly be interesting.

 

Just then, the door opened again and Esmeralda walked in carrying a large tray.

 

“Hullo, my darlings,” she said to the lads on the bed.  “Ready for some tea?”

 

“I think I could eat an oliphaunt, Aunt Esmeralda!” Frodo exclaimed, sitting up and allowing the bag of ice to slide off his back.  The two cousins shared the small (by hobbit standards) feast with abundant good cheer.  Sandwiches, scones, apples, jellies, tarts, and custards all disappeared rapidly from the tray, and the children were soon reclining on the bed in a happy stupor.  Esmeralda had already eaten, but she remained to watch the feeding frenzy, then left to take the tray back to the kitchen.

 

Frodo closed his eyes again, with Merry nestled against his side.  Then the door opened for a third time, and Frodo opened his eyes, wondering with a flash of irritation why Brandy Hall had so many denizens, and why they all seemed to want to come into his room today.  When he saw his visitors, however, Frodo sat up, pulling Merry with him.

 

It was Old Rory himself, dragging along a white-faced Bolo.  Uncle Saradoc entered the room behind the others, and stood quietly against the wall.

 

“Go on, then,” snapped Old Rory, nudging Bolo forward.

 

Bolo shuffled forward to stand at the foot of Frodo’s bed.  Frodo and Merry watched him with wide eyes, but Bolo would not look up to meet either of their gazes.

 

“Cousin Frodo,” Bolo said stiffly.  “I apologize for my deplorable behaviour the night before last.  I abandoned you to danger and I disgraced our family.  Will you forgive me?”  The form of Bolo’s apology was correct, and when he was finished he finally looked up to meet Frodo’s round blue eyes.  Frodo read an odd combination of defeat and confusion in Bolo’s gaze, but none of the usual disdain was evident.

 

Remembering the bitter feelings of terror, rejection, and hurt he had long experienced at the hands of the bully standing before him, there were many things Frodo could have said.  However, there was only one response he would have Merry hear him utter, and so, in fact, there was only one possible reply.

 

“Forgiven,” Frodo said simply. 

 

Bolo’s shoulders slumped in relief that at least one ordeal was over, and Old Rory hustled him out of the room, after aiming an approving nod in Frodo’s direction.  Uncle Saradoc came forward from his position by the wall and kissed Frodo’s curly head.

 

“I’m proud of you, Frodo-lad,” Saradoc murmured.  “I know that must have been difficult.”  Frodo returned his smile faintly, then turned to look at his little cousin.

 

“Close your mouth, Cousin Merry; a firebug might get caught in there,” Frodo joked weakly.  Merry had been staring at Frodo with wide brown eyes while his small mouth hung slightly open.

 

“Come along, my boy,” Saradoc said briskly to Merry, lifting him off the bed.  “Let’s go and let Cousin Frodo rest.”

 

* * *

 

 

Five weeks later, Mabelle the Pony plodded slowly along the dirt lane that led to the farms near Brandy Hall.  She was rather an old pony, but she was delighted to be out stretching her creaky legs on a fine, bright May evening such as this one.  She tossed her head, enjoying the feel of the gentle breeze on her neck.

 

Seeing a shady tree just ahead, Mabelle broke into a trot, eliciting giggles from her two small riders.  When she reached the tree, she stood patiently while the children clambered off her back, turning her head slightly to watch the bigger one.  He had an injured front hoof, and it took him a little longer to climb down.  Once both her charges were safely on the ground, standing on their hind legs in the bizarre fashion of their species, Mabelle snorted and plopped down in the shady grass.  The smaller one came forward to pat her nose and offer her a carrot, which she accepted gracefully.

 

The juicy carrot served to whet her appetite, and after a brief respite Mabelle got to her feet again and fell to munching on the cool, sweet grass around the tree, watching idly as the two tiny non-Ponies settled themselves against another tree a few steps away.

 

“Fwodo?” asked Merry, eyeing his reclining cousin.  “When does your plaster come off?”

 

“In a few days, Merry-lad,” Frodo replied, smiling to himself.  It had been difficult teaching his younger cousin to ride a pony when he himself had the use of only one arm.  He wouldn’t have dared it with any but old Mabelle, and besides, Aunt Esmeralda had authorized only short rides for the last few weeks, usually after supper.  They weren’t permitted to go any further than the nearby Buckland farms, at least until Frodo’s broken arm had mended completely.

 

“Oh, good,” said Merry.  “Whenever I see your poor arm in that sling, it reminds me of Cousin Bolo.”

 

Frodo raised an eyebrow.  He rarely devoted any thought to Bolo these days.  Serving the punishment handed out by Old Rory had kept Cousin Bolo quite well occupied these past weeks.  Bolo was far too busy to think of indulging in his usual bullying pastimes, either with Frodo or any of Bolo’s other favourite victims.  In fact, even when he wasn’t engaged in his extra chores, Bolo had showed a most pleasing inclination to avoid Frodo whenever possible.  Frodo found this state of affairs to be quite satisfactory.

 

“Will you tell me a story before we go back, Cousin?” Merry asked presently.

 

“Yes indeed,” answered Frodo.  They had perhaps a half hour before they would have to head back to Brandy Hall, or they would risk being late for Merry’s bedtime.  He put his left arm around Merry and told him one of Bilbo’s tales, the one about Trolls.  Merry was old enough now to like a little suspense in his stories, and he eagerly pulled two apples out of his trouser pockets.  He handed one to Frodo, and settled down to hear the story.

 

Looking down at his younger cousin, listening raptly beside him, Frodo reflected on how glad he was to have Merry.  Saradoc and Esmeralda encouraged Frodo to spend as much time as possible with their son, partly, Frodo privately believed, because he didn’t seem to get into nearly as many scrapes when he had little Merry with him.  In any case, he was happy to oblige.  Merry’s cheerful presence helped ease the loneliness Frodo had lived with since his parents’ deaths. 

 

Frodo had spent most of his years at Brandy Hall feeling unwanted and unnoticed, which had sparked a very un-hobbitlike inclination to let his imagination run away with him when he made up adventures for himself.  Any sensible hobbit would classify such activities as mischief.  For example, that time when he had been a mighty King of Dwarves, he had found it absolutely essential to sneak into the lower pantry and ‘rescue’ seventeen jars of preserves, but his relatives hadn’t seen it that way.  He hadn’t eaten any, and certainly he had meant to put them all back when the adventure was over, but Cook had been furious nonetheless. 

 

Anyway, Frodo found it much easier to curb the ‘mischievous’ part of his adventurous side when he had Merry with him.  Merry was always a willing and eager participant in his imaginary games, and Frodo found that when he had another hobbit lad to play with, jars of preserves were unnecessary.  Even more importantly, Merry’s friendship made Brandy Hall bearable; it was so delightful for Frodo to know that if he didn’t appear at a meal, or if he wasn’t seen all day, at least one person wasn’t too busy or indifferent to miss him.

 

The story was over now, and it was time for Merry and Frodo to go home.  As Merry helped his cousin clamber awkwardly onto Mabelle’s back, he caught sight of a corner of cream-coloured parchment poking out of Frodo’s pocket.

 

“What’s that, Cousin?” Merry asked, pointing at the pocket.

 

Frodo ran his hand over his pocket absently, before exclaiming, “Oh!  I nearly forgot to tell you!”

 

Merry wrapped his arms around Frodo’s waist as Mabelle began plodding for home, as much to keep his injured cousin secure as to maintain his own seat.  “Is it a letter, Fwodo?”

 

“Yes indeed!  ‘Tis a letter from Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo replied.  “He says he is coming for a long visit, in early autumn, before our birthdays.”  That was only four months away, sooner than Frodo had expected.  Bilbo always tried to visit at least once per year, but he usually came in the late winter and stayed a fortnight or two.  When Frodo was younger, Bilbo had come more frequently, but the three-day journey was not to be taken lightly for a hobbit of nearly one hundred summers, however youthful his appearance.

 

“That’s good news, then,” Merry said happily.  He had only met Bilbo a few times himself, but he was already quite fond of the eccentric old gentlehobbit.  Merry was also happy for Frodo’s sake, for he knew that Frodo never seemed as sad as usual when Uncle Bilbo was visiting.

 

“The best news,” Frodo agreed, smiling.  Lifting his gaze from the winding dirt path laid out before them, Frodo looked happily up as the last orange-and-pink streaks of the sunset faded, the sky now reflecting the cerulean blue of his sparkling eyes.

 


	9. Saradoc's Idea

September 2, 1390

 

“Frodo!” snapped Uncle Dinodas.  “Keep your eyes on your work, there!”

 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Frodo replied to the Brandy Hall schoolmaster.  Dinodas glared at him and returned to his lecture.  He was explaining the uses of irrigation in agriculture to a group of the youngest pupils in the school.  It was one of Dinodas’s most beloved topics, and he wasn’t happy about the interruption.

 

Frodo wasn’t sorry at all, but he obediently shifted his unfocused stare from the round window to the pages in front of him.  The Brandy Hall school-hole was not as crowded as usual; many of the pupils came from farming families in Buckland and would not return to their studies until the autumn harvest was completed.  After his years of practice, Frodo was expert at blending into the background and escaping people’s notice, but it was hard to avoid the old schoolmaster’s scrutiny when there were only a handful of hobbit children in the room.

 

Frodo was normally a well-behaved lad and he did try to focus on his work.  He forced himself to read again the lesson Dinodas had set him, but the words refused to make sense.  The normal routine was so difficult this afternoon...  Frodo’s twenty-second birthday was in twenty days, but he scarcely gave it a thought, for he now had something even more marvellous to look forward to: Bilbo was coming tomorrow. 

 

Bilbo had written and said they might expect him September 3rd, which was now only scant hours away.  Frodo could hardly keep from bouncing in his seat at this thought.  He thought of what Bilbo would say, if he knew that his usually obedient young cousin was misbehaving in school.  At the mental image of dear Uncle Bilbo trying to look stern while restraining merry laughter, Frodo could not hold back a sly smile.

 

“Frodo Baggins!”  Oops.  “I have had it with your ill behaviour this day!  Take yourself off to see Master Saradoc, young hobbit!  He’ll know what to do with you.”  Master Dinodas kept a well-disciplined school hole, and he did not abide disorderly conduct.

 

Frodo quickly gathered up his books and removed himself from Dinodas’s sight as quickly as he could.  Dinodas might change his mind at any moment and decide to discipline Frodo himself, instead of letting Saradoc do it.  As it was, the old schoolmaster didn’t want to interrupt his engaging lecture any longer than was necessary, and Frodo closed the door behind him with a sigh of relief.  He knew Saradoc would certainly punish him, and he was ashamed of the disappointment he knew his relative would feel at his disrespectful behaviour, but he was nonetheless happy to be away from school today.  He could not concentrate, and it was a torment to him.

 

Frodo supposed that Saradoc would be in the library at this hour, having a little time to himself as he often did just before tea-time.  Frodo headed in that direction, and found the library door open.  He knocked on it to announce his presence and stepped inside.

 

“Frodo-lad!” exclaimed Saradoc, looking up from the letter he was writing.  “Shouldn’t you be at your lessons?”

 

“Master Dinodas sent me,” Frodo answered with an embarrassed shrug.  “I wasn’t paying attention.”

 

Saradoc studied his young cousin carefully.  Frodo was an exceptionally intelligent child, but he was not an eager student.  Saradoc knew that Frodo found school terribly dull, but really, it was the only suitable place for him.  He was a gentlehobbit and must be educated along with the other children at Brandy Hall.  Frodo would certainly do better with private instruction, where he could go at his own rapid pace, but such individual attention was simply not feasible.  At least, not in Brandy Hall...  Saradoc frowned at the peculiar thought, but pushed it away for later consideration.

 

Despite today’s circumstances, Dinodas had always reported Frodo to be an obedient pupil, although unusually quiet and rarely enthusiastic.  Of course, it wasn’t difficult for Saradoc to guess the reason for Frodo’s inability to concentrate today, and he could hardly punish the boy for eagerly awaiting the arrival of his favourite relative.

 

“We expect Bilbo to arrive tomorrow, do we not?” Saradoc finally said.

 

“Yes, Uncle,” Frodo said, surprised by the seemingly abrupt change in subject.

 

Saradoc was watching the child keenly, and he did not miss the way Frodo’s face lit up at the mention of Bilbo.  In fact, Saradoc had often observed that the only time Frodo displayed much enthusiasm for anything was when Bilbo was visiting.  The lad seemed cheerful enough most of the time, especially when playing with Merry, but Saradoc knew that Frodo had never been truly happy here, and he deeply regretted it. 

 

Watching those normally solemn azure eyes now sparkling at the thought of Bilbo’s visit, Saradoc suddenly sat up in his chair, frowning thoughtfully.  An idea had quite abruptly taken hold in his mind.  A preposterous idea, really, and yet it continued to grow...

 

Saradoc swallowed past a suddenly dry throat, still staring at Frodo.  He could not ignore this idea, or delay its consideration; he had to act on it immediately.  It was one of those ideas where all the parts of a problem suddenly fall into place, all at once, leaving a solution so desperately perfect that it simply must have been inspired by something greater than himself.

 

“Frodo-lad,” Saradoc said, after a brief pause.  “Run and get your Aunt Esmeralda for me, all right?  She’s likely to be in the upper pantry.”

 

“Yes, Uncle,” Frodo said, looking puzzled.  “What about my punishment?”

 

Punishment?  Oh, of course- “Er, after you’ve sent your Aunt, go and help the cooks prepare the tea things.”

 

Frodo nodded and went out, still confused about Saradoc’s behaviour.  The future Master of Buckland had seemed so distracted all of a sudden, and his punishment was astonishingly light.  Perhaps Saradoc was distracted by his anticipation of Bilbo’s arrival as Frodo himself was?  That didn’t seem likely; Saradoc was a grown hobbit and thus always in complete control of his feelings, after all.

 

Esmeralda was indeed in the upper pantry, going over Brandy Hall’s stores with the head cook.  “What’s the matter, dear?” she asked, when she caught sight of the blue-eyed hobbitling clambering down the stairs to where she was standing.

 

“Uncle Saradoc asked me to send for you, Aunt Esmeralda,” Frodo answered.  “He awaits you in the library.”

 

“Is anything wrong?” Esmeralda asked.  Frodo had the most peculiar expression on his face.

 

“Er, I think not,” Frodo said uncertainly.  “He just said to send you right away.”

 

“All right,” said Esmeralda.  She closed the sack of flour she had been inspecting and marched up the stairs to the main level of Brandy Hall.

 

His first mission accomplished, Frodo followed his aunt up the stairs and went into the kitchen.  He spied Miss Poppy at the baking counter, putting the finishing touches on some miniature apple tarts.

 

“Hullo, Mr. Frodo!” Poppy said when she noticed Frodo standing beside her.  “What brings you here, lad?”

 

“I’ve been sent to help with the tea things, Miss Poppy,” the young hobbit announced.

 

“Well, what good luck for me, then!” Poppy exclaimed cheerfully.  “You can start filling the pastries for the next batch.  Wash your hands first, mind!”

 

* * *

 

 

Back in the library, Saradoc sat very still, smiling slightly and gazing out the window.  His unfinished letter lay forgotten on the desk.  Esmeralda would be here soon, and then he could finally share his idea with someone.  He knew there would be opposition to his idea, and strictly speaking it wasn’t really proper, but some things were simply more important than propriety.  Things such as the happiness and well-being of a kind-hearted hobbit lad who had been entrusted to the care of Saradoc and his wife under tragic circumstances.

 

Saradoc heard a soft footfall behind him and turned away from the window to find his wife standing in the doorway.

 

“Is something wrong, my love?” Esmeralda asked.  “Is little Merry all right?”

 

“Merry is still in the nursery, darling,” Saradoc tried to smile reassuringly.  “Nothing is wrong.  I just wanted to speak with you.”

 

Esmeralda raised an eyebrow and seated herself in the chair across from her husband, motioning for him to continue.

 

Saradoc sighed.  “It’s about Frodo,” he said finally.

 

“Yes?” Esmeralda prompted, looking concerned.

 

“Do you think he is happy here?”  It was a loaded question, and one they didn’t often discuss.

 

“No,” Esmeralda said softly, after a brief hesitation.  Her expression was sad.  The Bucklanders were Frodo’s only relations with the proper resources to raise a young orphan.  But she knew very well that he was not happy.

 

“Esmeralda,” Saradoc said, finally bringing himself to reveal his idea.  “I think Frodo should go and live with Bilbo at Bag End.”

 

Startled brown eyes looked up into Saradoc’s, and then frowned down at the floor.  There was a long silence.  She loved her little cousin dearly, and at Brandy Hall he was surrounded by other children and hobbits who were experienced parents...  and yet, it was not what he needed.  The crowd in Brandy Hall was swallowing the child, not nurturing him. 

 

They had all believed this to be the best possible arrangement for Frodo in the event of his parents’ deaths; Drogo, Primula, Saradoc, Esmeralda, and Bilbo had all agreed to it when Frodo was born.  And yet, they had all been mistaken. 

 

Saradoc’s plan was a good one, Esmeralda had to admit, and one that no one had considered before.  Others might object to Bilbo as being an unsuitable guardian, but she and Saradoc were the ones responsible for Frodo, not others.  They had sworn to do what was best for Frodo.  Bilbo himself would no doubt need a great deal of persuading before he would believe himself capable of raising a child, but Esmeralda knew the old hobbit well, and she had to admit that he could give Frodo exactly what the child needed: love, individual attention, belonging.

 

Esmeralda finally looked back to her husband.  Saradoc was still waiting for her response.  She looked deeply into his eyes and nodded slowly in agreement.  Merry would miss Frodo terribly.

 

“We’ll discuss it with Bilbo when he arrives tomorrow,” Saradoc said.  Convincing the old hobbit that he could do this would be difficult, but Saradoc had no doubt that they would succeed in the end.  He reached out to grasp his wife’s hand, and they sat together in the silent library.

 

 

 


	10. Culmination

Evening of September 2, 1390.

 

Frodo Baggins tried to open his eyes as wide as he could, wanting to take in as much of the night sky as possible with one look.  The sun had set hours ago, and countless stars were now reflected in the upturned azure eyes.  Frodo did not know many constellations yet, but he was sure he recognized the Beef Stew Ladle, and its smaller brother over yonder, the Gravy Ladle.

 

A gentle breeze came up then, causing the tall grass on the hill to rustle and tickle Frodo’s bare feet.  Frodo sat up with a yawn.  It was quite late, certainly after ten o’clock.  Frodo knew he was supposed to be in bed by nine thirty, but he also knew his Aunt Esmeralda would not come to check on him for another hour or two, on her way to bed.  Frodo idly wondered what it would feel like to have someone notice whether he got to bed on time or not.  He supposed it would be irritating to be monitored so closely and prevented from coming and going as he pleased, and yet...  Frodo could also imagine that such attention might bring comfort.

 

Frodo settled back in the grass, shaking off such pointless thoughts.  A little longer wouldn’t hurt.  He loved watching the stars.  He would have preferred to do it from the vantage point of a tall tree, but he was a little hesitant about climbing trees in the dark now.  Over two years had passed since Frodo had broken his arm falling out of a tree; the arm had fully mended, but the young hobbit had learned his lesson.

 

Aside from that, little Merry frowned upon the climbing of trees now.  Frodo smiled, remembering his cousin’s eighth birthday back in April.  Merry had given Frodo a tiny glass sculpture to commemorate the occasion.  The sculpture depicted a stately birch tree in miniature, and it had come with a solemn request from the little birthday-boy: ‘Cousin, put this twee on your night table, and let it remind you not to go climbing any more in the dark!’

 

The little glass ‘twee’ stood proudly on Frodo’s night table at this very moment, but the warning it represented was scarcely necessary.  Frodo was not a reckless lad, and although his relatives would hardly suspect it, he did in fact have a fair bit of hobbit-sense.

 

At this moment, that hobbit-sense was telling Frodo he should have gone in a long time ago.  It was so difficult to contemplate sleep when tomorrow would bring his dear Uncle Bilbo, and yet sleep would make the next day arrive all the faster.  Frodo sighed and got to his feet.  He was quite far from Brandy Hall, almost at the South Gate.  Bilbo usually came by the North Gate, and that was where Frodo planned to wait all day tomorrow, if he could.

 

Frodo had come to the base of his star-gazing hill, but he found that he couldn’t bear to head home just yet.  The dark-haired lad sat down with his back against a nearby tree, frustrated with himself.  What was the matter with him?  Why was he so restless?  Frodo did not often wish for his parents to miraculously come back anymore, as he had often done years ago, but he couldn’t seem to help doing so now.  Their deaths had left an ache deep inside him that refused to go away.  The ache had dulled over the years, but it was always there.  Some things made it almost vanish, like time spent with dear Bilbo. 

 

Frodo realized his eyes had filled with tears, and he allowed himself to cry freely.  He knew his relatives often said he was a melancholy child, and he had long ago ceased to wonder why that was so.  He didn’t often feel the need to cry anymore, but he sometimes indulged if he was alone, as he was at present.  At times, in Brandy Hall, Frodo felt so invisible that he wasn’t sure if he truly existed; the frustration could build up until he wanted to burst.

 

After crying for a few minutes, Frodo felt slightly better.  He sat up and rubbed his face with the sleeve of his shirt, rebuking himself for leaving his warm brown cloak at home on an unseasonably cold September evening.  Just when Frodo was ready to return to Brandy Hall, his sensitive ears detected a noise that was most out of place among the chirping crickets and other nighttime noises of Brandy Hill.  It sounded like... singing!  Frodo held perfectly still and listened carefully.

 

_“Upon the hearth the fire is red,_

_Beneath the roof there is a bed;_

_But not yet weary are our feet,_

_Still round the corner we may meet_

_A sudden tree or standing stone_

_That none have seen but we alone.”_

 

The voice was very familiar, and instantly brought a rush of joy to the listening child.  “Bilbo!” Frodo whispered.  He got up silently and crept closer to the path.

 

* * *

 

 

_“Tree and flower, leaf and grass,_

_Let them pass!  Let them pass!_

_Hill and water under sky,_

_Pass them by!  Pass them by!”_

 

Bilbo finished the chorus and looked around.  If he wasn’t mistaken, he should be at Brandy Hall in just a few minutes.  Bilbo smiled and picked up the pace.  He hadn’t planned to arrive until tomorrow, but he’d passed through Tookborough on his way here, which was why he was currently approaching the South Gate instead of his usual route.  It was a brief but pleasant visit with his Took cousins in the Great Smials, and Bilbo had wanted to see Paladin’s new little one, but he had decided to press on a day early.  He was eager to see Frodo again.    

 

It was past eleven o’clock by now, so Frodo would undoubtedly be in bed.  Bilbo hadn’t counted on getting such a late start two mornings ago, but no matter.  It was late, and it was dark, but he was almost there.  Bilbo had a lantern packed in his bag, but he hadn’t bothered getting it out; the stars were so bright tonight.  He would soon be at Brandy Hall, and he would see his little cousin in the morning.

 

Bilbo was therefore quite shocked to hear a cry of “Uncle Bilbo!” just before a small figure darted onto the path immediately before him.

 

“Frodo-lad!” Bilbo exclaimed, too surprised to speak as he returned the child’s hug.

 

“We weren’t expecting you till tomorrow, Uncle!” Frodo said excitedly, tugging on Bilbo’s hand in his impatience to get to Brandy Hall.  “And you always come through the North Gate, never the South Gate!”

 

“Now hold on, my boy,” said Bilbo, recovering himself.  “Do you know what the hour is?  What in Elbereth’s name are you doing out here?”

 

“Oh,” said Frodo in a small voice.  He had quite forgotten that he was supposed to be in bed, and it hadn’t occurred to him that Bilbo would object.  “I just wanted... to be by myself.”  Truthfully, Frodo didn’t know why he was out here, but that seemed a reasonable answer.

 

Bilbo’s brow furrowed.  A child of twenty-one had no business being up this late.  Did no one keep a proper eye on the boy?  He would have to take this up with Saradoc or Esmeralda; he recalled something similar happening during another visit some years ago, and he had taken for granted that it would not happen again.

 

Looking more closely at his young cousin, Bilbo noticed that the cerulean blue eyes seemed unnaturally bright in the dim glow cast by the stars.  Had the boy been crying?

 

Frodo looked down abruptly.  “I... I’m sorry I’ve upset you, Uncle,” Frodo murmured softly.  His voice sounded slightly choked.

 

“Now then, dear boy, none of that,” Bilbo said, concerned.  He pulled Frodo back into a hug, and was alarmed to find that the boy was trembling.  “I’m not upset with you, only worried.”

 

Frodo’s heart lifted at these words, but suddenly he was so tired.  He found himself sagging against Bilbo, and then sturdy arms were lifting him up, and his uncle’s worn travel cloak was being wrapped snugly around him.

 

“Let’s get you to bed, Frodo-lad,” Bilbo said with a cheerfulness he didn’t feel.  He carried Frodo the rest of the way to Brandy Hall.

 

* * *

 

 

As Bilbo approached the door to Frodo’s bedroom, he saw Esmeralda coming from the opposite direction.  She stopped in her tracks when she saw him.

 

“Bilbo!” she exclaimed in surprise, but Bilbo pressed a finger to his lips, motioning to the small hobbit fast asleep in his arms.  Esmeralda nodded.  She opened the door to Frodo’s room as softly as she could, and together they changed Frodo into his nightclothes and tucked him into bed.

 

Out in the hall again, Esmeralda motioned for Bilbo to accompany her.

 

“I was just on my way to check on him,” she said.  “Where was he?”

 

“He was outside, near the South Gate,” Bilbo replied stiffly.

 

Esmeralda gasped.  “Oh, dear!”

 

“From his demeanor, I would guess that he does this on a fairly regular basis,” Bilbo continued.

 

“He’s always been in bed when I go to check on him,” Esmeralda said, bewildered.

 

Bilbo sighed and shook his head.

 

When they arrived at the rooms shared by Esmeralda, Saradoc, and Merry, they opened the round door and went in.  Saradoc was sitting in the small parlor, but stood quickly when he saw the visitor.

 

“Why, Bilbo!” he said.  “You’ve come a day early!”

 

Esmeralda interrupted the greeting to explain what had happened with Frodo.  Saradoc exchanged a glance with his wife, then sat down again, running a hand through his light brown curls.

 

“Bilbo,” he said.  “There is something we need to discuss, and we might as well do it now.”

 

* * *

 

 

Early the next morning, Bilbo was sitting in the kitchen, having a strong cup of tea.  He couldn’t believe what Esmeralda and Saradoc had asked of him.  How could he adopt Frodo?  He was ninety-nine years old, nearly one hundred.  He knew he didn’t look it, but that was his age, and he had no experience whatsoever of raising children.  How could he ask Frodo to leave everything that was familiar and move to Bag End, a place he had not visited since his parents were able to bring him, by wagon, on a journey that was too far for a child to walk?

 

And yet... and yet!  How could he refuse?  Esmeralda had told him that Frodo was not happy here, that the boy lived for Bilbo’s brief visits.  That Frodo was quiet and withdrawn much of the time, and the only friend he had was little Merry.  Bilbo could not ignore his cousin’s plight.  Of course, if Frodo came to live with him, he would have to give up his longer trips until the lad was old enough to come along if he wanted, but Bilbo felt certain it would be well worth the sacrifice, if it meant helping his dear cousin.  Bilbo also had to admit to himself that he enjoyed Frodo’s company, and the boy would undoubtedly be a welcome addition to Bag End.

 

Bilbo sighed in frustration.  The problem was complex, and he couldn’t seem to stop going around in circles. 

 

“Master Baggins, sir?” asked a voice, interrupting his reverie.  “Can I bring you another cup of tea?”

 

“What?  Oh, yes, thank you.”

 

The scullery maid was soon back with another steaming cup, which she set before Bilbo.

 

“Thank you, my dear,” Bilbo said automatically, and looked up.  “Miss Poppy, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes, sir,” she answered.  She was a stout hobbit with sandy-brown curls, and Bilbo judged her age to be about forty-eight. 

 

“Well, won’t you sit down and have a cup with me?” Bilbo asked.  Miss Poppy looked a little surprised, so he added hastily, “Please.  I’m weary of being alone with my thoughts this morning.”

 

Poppy nodded agreeably and poured herself a cup of tea.  She settled in the seat across from Bilbo and gazed at him expectantly.  “You’ve come to see Mr. Frodo, haven’t you, sir?” Poppy asked suddenly, hoping she wasn’t being too forward.

 

“That’s right,” Bilbo said, recalling suddenly that this was the maid Frodo was so fond of.  Poppy didn’t seem inclined to say anything further, but Bilbo wondered if perhaps she had any insights that would help him make this decision.  “Why do you ask?” he said finally.

 

“I’m just glad, is all sir,” Poppy replied.  “He’s been real sad of late.”

 

“You know him well, do you?”

 

“Mr. Frodo spends much of his time in here with me, sir.  I reckon I know him pretty well by now.”

 

Bilbo gave Poppy a measuring look.  “May I ask your opinion on something, Miss Poppy?  It concerns Frodo.”

 

“Of course, sir!”  Poppy said.  “I’ll help any way I can.”

 

Bilbo sighed and paused to gather his thoughts, then decided to get right to the point.  “I’m considering adopting Frodo and taking him to live with me in Hobbiton.”

 

“Indeed?” exclaimed Poppy.  “Well, that’s wonderful news, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir!”

 

“Is it?” Bilbo asked.  “How do you think Frodo would feel?  Being taken away from familiar surroundings, to be raised by an old hobbit like me who doesn’t know the first thing about children?”

 

Poppy smiled at him gently.  “Well, sir, if you’re asking me, I ought to tell you I don’t believe Mr. Frodo would feel that way at all.  First of all, you already know a far sight more than the first thing about parenting, sir; I’ve seen you with the lad, and you’re wonderful with him.”  Bilbo opened his mouth to reply, but Poppy continued without giving him a chance.  “As for familiar surroundings, sir?  Don’t give it a thought.  Brandy Hall is familiar all right, but it ain’t doing the lad any good, begging your pardon.”

 

“Indeed?” Bilbo said.  “Then you really think Frodo would want to come to Bag End?”

 

“If it’s you as is taking him away, sir, I think he’d go just about anywhere, if you take my meaning.”  Poppy finished her tea and stood to get back to work.  “In my opinion, sir, anywhere you are is the best place for Mr. Frodo.”

 

“Thank you, Miss Poppy,” Bilbo said, feeling a little overwhelmed.  “You’ve been most helpful.”

 

* * *

 

 

That evening after supper, Bilbo was sitting with Frodo in the library.  They had been having a fine bit of quiet time, talking about anything and everything.  Soon the conversation turned to presents.  Frodo was telling Bilbo about Merry’s glass ‘twee,’ and Bilbo suddenly recalled that it would be his birthday, his and Frodo’s, in just twenty days.

 

“Is something planned for your birthday, my boy?” Bilbo asked.

 

“Oh, yes,” Frodo replied.  “Aunt Esmeralda will have a party for me.  It’ll be just her, Merry, and Uncle Saradoc, which is all I want.  Well, except for you of course, Uncle!”

 

“I wish I could be there, Frodo-lad,” Bilbo smiled.  The plan for his birthday this year had been well underway before he’d decided to make the trip to Buckland.

 

“And you, Uncle Bilbo?  Will you have a good birthday?”  Ever since he had learned that he shared a birthday with Bilbo, Frodo had wanted to go to Bag End to share the celebration.  He knew his parents had taken him there several times, but Frodo could hardly remember the experience.  Frodo’s Buckland relatives rarely went to Hobbiton, even though they were invited every year to Bilbo’s party.  It was a great distance, and a complex endeavor to transport such a large extended family.

 

“It ought to be a fine party,” said Bilbo.  “Which reminds me!  I owe you a birthday present!  I’ll be right back, dear boy.”

 

As Bilbo went out to retrieve the present, Frodo smiled to himself and removed a small package from the drawer of the old bureau that was kept in the library.

 

“Here we are, Frodo-lad,” Bilbo said cheerfully, coming back into the library.  He handed Frodo a colourfully-wrapped package that was shaped suspiciously like a book.  Frodo opened the gift eagerly, and gasped when he saw what was inside.

 

“ _’Dragons: An Anthology, By Gandalf the Grey_ ,’” Frodo read carefully off the cover.  It was a beautiful book, bound in green leather.

 

“You’ll find plenty of good stories in there, Frodo my boy!” Bilbo laughed.

 

“Oh!  Thank you, Uncle!” Frodo exclaimed, rushing to hug Bilbo.  “Now open yours!”

 

Bilbo accepted the small, grubby package as though it were made of mithril and opened it carefully.  “Well!” he exclaimed.  “I see you’ve been putting your studies to good use!  Very well done, but did you have any help?”  Bilbo knew perfectly well that no one at Brandy Hall could have helped Frodo with this particular gift, for it was a fabric book-mark with the letters B-I-L-B-O carefully stitched... in Elf-runes.

 

Frodo laughed.  “Miss Poppy showed me how to do the stitching, but I did the rest by myself, Uncle.”

 

Bilbo planted a kiss on Frodo’s curly head.  “I know you did, my boy.  I’m so proud of you.”

 

Frodo beamed, pleased with the success of both of their presents.

 

They spent the next hour reading to each other from the dragon book, and then Bilbo realized he could put off what he needed to discuss no longer.  The story was over, and Bilbo closed the book slowly.  Frodo watched him silently, aware that the mood had shifted, become more serious.

 

“Frodo-lad,” Bilbo began finally.  “I need to ask you about last night.” 

 

Frodo looked down.  So far today, no one had mentioned that Frodo had been caught out of bed so far past his bedtime.

 

“Yes, sir?”  Frodo asked apprehensively.  Was Bilbo still angry?

 

Bilbo tried to smile reassuringly at his young cousin.  “I need to know if this happens often, you roaming about when you’re supposed to be in bed.”

 

Frodo shrugged.  He couldn’t lie, but he was suddenly ashamed of his actions.  Bilbo must think he was quite wild and reckless, to be outside when any sensible hobbit would be home, tucked in bed.

 

Bilbo sighed.  “I thought so,” he said.  “Had anyone ever noticed before?”

 

Frodo shook his head, seemingly puzzled by the question.  Why would anyone notice?  He did his best not to make a nuisance of himself. 

 

Bilbo put his arm around Frodo and pulled him a little closer.  “I need you to tell me something, Frodo,” Bilbo said then.  “Do you ever feel sad?”

 

Frodo turned to face Bilbo, and his small face registered shock.  The ache of loneliness and neglect rose in him so suddenly that his cerulean blue eyes filled with tears, but he could see Bilbo’s expression change from surprise to concern, and finally to understanding.  The little hobbit found himself being pulled into a hug, even as he wondered at the intensity of his own reaction to a simple question.

 

Then he finally thought of something he could say.  “You make it hurt less,” Frodo whispered against Bilbo’s shoulder.

 

“What, lad?”  Bilbo rubbed the small back gently.

 

“Mama and Papa being gone.”

 

“Oh, my dear boy...” the old hobbit couldn’t continue.  He held the small, trembling form as tightly as he could.  His course was far clearer than he’d realized; he knew next to nothing about raising a child, but that hardly seemed to matter, when the child so obviously needed him.  They would manage, he and Frodo.

 

“You had better come and live with me, Frodo my lad,” said Bilbo when he had control of his voice again; “and then we can celebrate our birthday-parties comfortably together.”*

 

Frodo lifted his damp face from Bilbo’s shoulder, and stared at his uncle in shock, as the meaning of those words sank in.  “Truly?” the hobbitling said finally.  “You want me to live with you?”

 

“Of course, dear boy,” Bilbo answered.  “If you wish it, I mean.”

 

In answer, Frodo flung his small arms around his uncle once more, and buried his face against Bilbo’s neck.  Bilbo smiled as he felt the curly head nodding vigorously in affirmation.

 

“Then it’s settled; I’ll get the old place ready for you as soon as I can, and then I’ll hire a wagon in Hobbiton and come back to collect you.”  Bilbo said. 

 

Frodo smiled and tightened his arms around Bilbo.

 

“It might be awhile before I can be ready,” Bilbo cautioned.  “Perhaps as much as a year.”

 

The child looked disappointed for a moment, but a bright smile soon washed it away.  “That’s all right, Uncle,” he whispered.  “I think I could bear just about anything, knowing I’m going to live with you.”


	11. A New Adventure Begins

December 1, 1391

 

The hobbit-hole was warm and cozy.  There was a fire crackling merrily in the hearth, and two overstuffed armchairs squatted close together.  The room had a pleasant, lived-in look; there were shelves along one wall, but books and papers were spread over every surface.  There were articles on the walls, as well.  Framed portraits of generations of Bagginses... painted tiles... various knick-knacks, including some more exotic items.  Swords?  Perhaps.  A coat-of-arms, certainly.  Pieces of treasure... well, Bilbo would hardly be likely to mount a dragon’s treasure on the walls, would he?  So, no treasure... maybe just the swords then.

 

Footsteps crunched in the snow outside the hole.  Frodo blinked, and the imagined cozy sitting room of Bag End was replaced by walls of snow meticulously packed by small hobbit-hands.  He was lying on his stomach in the main hall of the snow-hole that he and Merry had burrowed in a snow bank just outside the west door of Brandy Hall two days before.  Frodo was alone in the hole now, though.  His heart ached at this thought.  Esmeralda had explained to Merry the day before that Frodo would be leaving Brandy Hall to live in Hobbiton, and Merry had been devastated.  He had refused to see Frodo after that, staying stubbornly in the suite he shared with his parents.  ‘How can you leave me, Frodo?  You’re mean and I hate you!’ Merry’s furious words echoed in Frodo’s head.

 

Frodo felt so muddled up inside.  Bilbo had arrived yesterday afternoon with a pony, sled, and a local tweenager to drive the pony, and Frodo had been thrilled that he was finally going to live with Bilbo.  It had been over a year since he had first agreed to the move; the adoption had become official the very week before Bilbo’s one-hundredth birthday.

 

Life had been nearly bearable this past year, simply because Frodo knew he would soon be moving to Bag End.  And yet, he was nervous about going to an unfamiliar place.  Would he find friends in Hobbiton?  Would he fit in?  Would he like living in Bag End?  Worst of all, though, was the knowledge that Merry did not want him to go.  It was truly painful to think that he might have to leave Brandy Hall with Merry still angry at him.  Frodo had planned to spend his last day at Brandy Hall adding another wing to the snow-hole with Merry.  Instead, he had spent the day alone.  Bilbo had promised to speak with Merry, and he had been in there for nearly an hour.

 

“Frodo?” a very unwelcome voice called irritably.

 

Reluctantly, Frodo wriggled down the main hall and out the grand, round entrance of the snow-hole.  Standing and brushing the snow off his trousers, Frodo did his best not to look at the hobbit standing in front of him.

 

Bolo sighed.  “Esmeralda’s looking for you.  She wants to know why you left your packing, and she said to tell you you’re leaving in an hour.”

 

“Thank you,” Frodo said politely.  Bolo had been behaving himself rather well these last few months, confining his bad habits to the occasional snide remark.  Frodo turned to go inside.

 

“You’re really going to Hobbiton, are you?”  Bolo said.

 

“I am,” Frodo replied warily.  He hoped Bolo wasn’t going to say anything about Mad Baggins; he didn’t want to quarrel with the older tweenager on his last morning here.

 

“You watch out, Frodo Baggins,” Bolo said.  “Everyone knows that folks in Hobbiton are downright peculiar.”

 

“Thank you for your concern, Bolo,” Frodo said blandly, and watched Bolo glare at him in irritation.  Frodo giggled and followed his cousin inside.  He had discovered that the best way to deal with Bolo’s troublemaking was to pretend to misunderstand every insulting comment.  Of course, in this case, Frodo suspected that Bolo actually believed what he’d said.

 

Frodo returned to his room.  His packing was almost complete.  He hadn’t accumulated many possessions in his years at Brandy Hall, and everything he owned fit neatly into one medium-sized trunk that he couldn’t quite lift, plus an apple crate for his books.  Frodo finished filling his trunk and, sitting on the lid, locked it securely.  There, nothing was left to do but have elevensies and set off with Bilbo.

 

Frodo sighed.  _Merry..._

* * *

 

 

“Merry-lad,” said Bilbo, bending down to meet the tear-filled eyes of the nine-year-old hobbit.  “I know this is very upsetting for you.  But I need you to listen to me, all right?”  Bilbo hoped Merry could be reconciled to this.  The adoption papers had been signed and given to the attorney over a year ago, and now Frodo’s new home was ready to receive him.  Frodo was now his heir, but he knew it would break the lad’s heart to part on bad terms with Merry.

 

Merry shook his head furiously and folded his chubby arms.  “I don’t want Frodo to leave me!”  He tightened his lips and turned away, refusing to say anything more.

 

“I know you don’t, lad,” Bilbo sighed.  “And rest assured, Frodo doesn’t want to leave you either.”  This caught Merry’s attention, and he turned to look at Bilbo again despite his earlier resolve.

 

“Then why’s he going?” the child asked pleadingly.

 

Bilbo settled into the big armchair beside the fire and pulled Merry into his lap.  “Let me ask you a question, Merry.  Who takes care of you?”

 

“My momma and dad,” Merry answered, looking confused at the change in topic.

 

“And who takes care of Frodo?”

 

Merry frowned.  This was more difficult.  He knew that Frodo’s momma and dad had died before Merry was even born.  He would have said that his own parents took care of Frodo... but he knew they did not take care of Frodo in the same sense that they did for Merry himself.  His mother had once explained to him that she and Saradoc were responsible for making sure Frodo was looked after, but the whole of Brandy Hall did the looking after part.  Yet they didn’t really, did they?  Merry had never seen any of the Bucklanders care for Frodo the same way Esmeralda and Saradoc cared for Merry.  Except...

 

“I do!”  Merry finally answered.  “I take care of Frodo!”

 

Bilbo raised his eyebrows, trying hard to stifle a chuckle at this bold proclamation.  “Is that so, my boy?” he said finally.

 

“’Course it is,” Merry said stoutly.  “I stopped him climbing any more trees in the dark, didn’t I?”

 

“So you did,” Bilbo replied, and he bent to kiss the curly brown head in front of him.  “For which I am very grateful.  But who tucks him in at night?  Who wakes him up in the morning?”

 

“Well, his momma and dad would’ve done that, I guess.”  Merry knew from experience that only grown-ups did such things.

 

“Yes, I’m sure they would have, dear boy,” Bilbo said.  “As it is, no one does those things for Frodo.”

 

“Really?” said Merry, sounding concerned now. 

 

"Merry...” Bilbo paused.  “I love Frodo very much and _I_ would like to do those things for him.” 

 

“Oh,” said Merry, thinking hard.  “That’s why Frodo has to go away.”

 

“That’s right, lad,” Bilbo replied.  There was a long silence.

 

“Well then,” Merry said finally, hopping off Bilbo’s lap and turning to address him.  “I better go help him pack.”

 

Bilbo stood as well, and squeezed Merry’s hand.  “Frodo is very fortunate to have a friend like you,” he said.

 

Merry beamed with pleasure, and they went out into the hall.

 

* * *

 

 

Frodo continued to sit on the lid of his closed trunk as he looked around the room that had been his home for the last eleven years.  His cousin Berilac still occupied one half of the room, but Frodo’s half now looked empty and sad, as though no one had lived there at all.

 

Frodo was staring absently out the round window when he heard a noise behind him, in the open doorway.  Before he had time to wonder who it was, he found that a pair of small arms were winding their way around his middle, and a small face was being pressed against his back.

 

“You’ll come back and visit sometimes, won’t you Frodo?” a dear voice whispered.

 

Frodo turned his head to see Merry hugging him from behind.

 

“A whole army of Trolls won’t be able to stop me,” Frodo replied seriously.  He turned around and pulled his little cousin up to sit beside him on the trunk.  Merry grinned at this image and rested his head against Frodo’s shoulder.

 

“You know I didn’t mean it, don’t you?” Merry asked soberly.  Frodo looked at him questioningly, and Merry gazed back with steady brown eyes.  “When I said I hated you.”

 

Frodo planted a kiss on the top of Merry’s curly head.  “I didn’t believe you for a second,” the older lad said firmly.

 

“Good,” Merry replied.  “Now let’s get our elevensies!”

 

* * *

 

 

Elevensies was a cheerful meal, as it usually was no matter the circumstances.  What hobbit could fail to be cheerful when confronted by so much good food?  It was made even more interesting for Frodo by the presence of a new face: the tweenager that Bilbo had hired from Hobbiton.  Frodo hadn’t seen anything of the new boy until this morning, and he was intensely curious.  Bilbo would only say that the boy had felt more comfortable staying in the kitchen the day before, but he had been persuaded to take this last meal before their departure with the family instead of with the servants in the kitchen.

 

Frodo tried to curb his unhobbitlike curiosity, but the best he could manage was to not stare too openly.  The boy was certainly older than Frodo; he looked to be Bolo’s age, perhaps 26 or 27 years old.  His clothes were rough and plain, and Frodo knew that meant he was of a lower class than the Brandybuck clan.  But the boy had sandy-brown hair and honest hazel eyes, and Frodo liked him immediately.  He wondered what the other children of Hobbiton were like.

 

After elevensies, Bilbo sent Frodo and the hired lad to bring out Frodo’s belongings.  Frodo led the way to his room, the older boy following along easily.

 

Frodo glanced at the tweenager, and realized they had not yet been introduced.  “What’s your name, please?” he asked politely.

 

The other lad looked at him in surprise, but he responded readily, “Hamson Gamgee, sir.”

 

“Frodo Baggins, at your service.  I’m pleased to meet you,” Frodo replied.  He was confused by Hamson’s formality; the servants of Brandy Hall certainly addressed him that way, but none of them were so close to Frodo’s own age. 

 

Frodo tried to shrug off his awkwardness and make the tweenager feel welcome.  “Have you ever been to Buckland, Hamson?” he asked.

 

“No indeed, Mr. Frodo,” Hamson replied with a nervous laugh.  “In fact I’ve never even been out of Hobbiton.”

 

“Truly?” said Frodo.  “I have been to Hobbiton before, but I was very young and I don’t remember it.  What’s it like?”

 

Hamson seemed to relax then, and he told Frodo how beautiful Hobbiton was in the winter.  Frodo learned that the Gamgees’ hole was near Bag End, Hamson had two brothers and three sisters, and his father was Uncle Bilbo’s gardener.  Hamson himself spent his summers doing farm work when it was available, and odd jobs in the winter.  But the tweenager would be leaving home next autumn; he was to learn a trade with his uncle, Andwise Roper of Tighfield.

 

“Do you like roping, Hamson?” Frodo asked curiously.

 

Hamson shrugged.  “I like working with my hands, anyway, Mr. Frodo.  I reckon I’ll take to roping all right.”

 

They had recovered the baggage from Frodo’s room and were walking out to the North door, where the stableman had Bilbo’s hired pony and sled hitched and ready to go.  Hamson had insisted on carrying the trunk, and indeed he seemed to manage the unwieldy object with practiced ease, so Frodo carried the small apple crate full of books.

 

At the door, Miss Poppy waited with his winter clothes.  He bundled up quickly, and all three went outside.  The sled was loaded in moments, and Hamson climbed up.  Bilbo had already made his farewells and was seated in the sled.  Frodo turned around to face the small group of hobbits that had gathered to see him off.  He hugged Miss Poppy, much to her embarrassment, and then he hugged Saradoc and Esmeralda.

 

“You’re a good lad,” Saradoc said huskily.  “Make sure you come back and visit us soon!”  Esmeralda could not speak, but she kissed him tearfully and held him close for a moment.

 

Last of all, Frodo bent down to look into Merry’s solemn brown eyes.  Merry hugged him tightly and kissed his cheek.

 

“We’ll go on great adventures together some day, Cousin Frodo,” the little boy said.  “Folks will tell tales of us.”

 

Frodo smiled.  “I’ll see you again soon, Merry-lad,” he said.  “Make sure and mind your parents, now!”

 

Merry smiled back.  “And you mind Uncle Bilbo!”

 

“I certainly shall,” Frodo replied with great dignity.  He kissed Merry on the forehead and clambered into the sled with Saradoc’s help.  Hamson tightened the pony’s reigns and urged the animal into a walk.  The sled surged forward, and Frodo looked back to wave farewell to Brandy Hall, his home for eleven years.  He didn’t turn around again until little Merry was a tiny speck in the distance, and his chubby hand could barely be seen waving frantically.

 

The pony was trotting now, and they had rounded a bend in the road.  Frodo faced forward again; they were coming to the North Gate, where Frodo had spent so many hours over the years waiting for Bilbo to arrive.  Now they were through the gate, coming to the East Road, and turning west toward Hobbiton. 

 

Frodo didn’t realize there were tears on his cheeks until Bilbo handed him a handkerchief.  The old hobbit put a reassuring hand on Frodo’s shoulder.  “We’ll see the Brandywine Bridge in a few minutes, lad,” was all Bilbo said.  Frodo dried his eyes quickly and put Brandy Hall and Merry out of his mind with an effort.  The road was ahead of him, white and pristine, but he could not see what lay beyond.  Farmland was passing on both sides, and soon he would see unfamiliar country.  It was the beginning of an entirely new adventure.

 

 

 

~THE END~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations for making it this far, and thanks so much for reading! I actually wrote this one around 2003. I hope my writing has become less cheesy over time... Anyway, reviews always more than welcome. But my massive pre-LOTR odyssey has barely begun. The next installment is called "Anchored,” it's finished, and I will start posting it soon. If you liked “Adrift,” then I can’t think of any earthly reason why you wouldn’t like “Anchored” just as much, if not more. It covers Frodo’s life with Bilbo in Hobbiton, from 1391 to 1401. Hope to see you there! :D


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